Paris is a Bitch

by Barry Eisler

  She realizes she’s crying. Tears are fine, even healthy in this line of work, just never on the clock, never in the grave. If you lose control down there, you might never get it back.

  Approaching footsteps snap her out of her reverie. She wipes her face and looks up, sees Sam coming toward her, the bald and scrawny Australian team leader who always wears a tie, especially in the field, his rubber boots swishing through the grass. He plops down beside her, reeking of decomp. Rips off the pair of filthy, elbow-length gloves and tosses them in the grass.

  “How many have you taken out so far?” she asks.

  “Twenty-nine. Mapping system shows a hundred fifty, hundred seventy-five still down in there.”

  “What’s the demographic?”

  “Men. Women. Children.”

  “High-velocity GSWs?”

  “Yeah, we’ve collected a ton of .223 Remington casings. But this is another weird one. Same thing we saw in that mass grave in Denver. Maybe you heard about it.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Dismemberment.”

  “Have you determined what was used?”

  “In most instances, it’s not a clean break, like a machete or ax strike. These bones are splintered.”

  “A chainsaw would do that.”

  “Clever girl.”

  “Jesus.”

  “So I’m thinking they cut everyone down with AR-15s, and then went through with chainsaws. Making sure no one crawled out.”

  The blond hairs on the back of her neck stand erect, a rod of ice descending her spine. The sun burns down out of the bright June sky, more intense for the elevation. Brushstrokes of snow linger above timberline on the distant peaks.

  “You okay?” Sam asks.

  “Yeah. Just that this is my first mission out west. I’d been working New York City up until now.”

  “Look, take the day if you want. Get yourself acclimated. You’ll need your head right for this one.”

  “No.” She stands, hoisting the duffle bag out of the grass and engaging that compartment in her brain that functions solely as a cold, indifferent scientist. “Let’s go to work.”

  THE president had just finished addressing the nation, and the anchors and pundits were back on the airwaves, scrambling, as they had been for the last three days, to sort out the chaos.

  Dee Colclough lay watching it all on a flatscreen from a ninth-floor hotel room ten minutes from home, a sheet twisted between her legs, the air-conditioning cool against the film of sweat on her skin.

  She looked over at Kiernan, said, “Even the anchors look scared.”

  Kiernan stubbed out his cigarette and blew a river of smoke at the television.

  “I got called up,” he said.

  “Your Guard unit?”

  “I have to report tomorrow morning.” He lit another one. “What I hear, we’ll just be patrolling neighborhoods.”

  “Keeping the peace until it all blows over?”

  He glanced at her, head cocked with that boyish smirk she’d fallen for six months ago when he’d deposed her as an adverse expert witness in a medical malpractice case. “Does anything about this make you feel like it’s going to blow over?”

  A new banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen—45 dead in a mass shooting at a Southern Baptist church in Columbia, South Carolina.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dee said.

  Kiernan dragged heavily on his cigarette. “Something’s happening,” he said.

  “Obviously. The whole country—”

  “That’s not what I mean, love.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He didn’t answer right away, just sat there for a while, smoking.

  “It’s been coming on now, little by little, for days,” he said finally.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I barely do myself.”

  Through the cracked window of their hotel room—distant gunshots and sirens.

  “This was supposed to be our week,” she said. “You were going to tell Myra. I was—”

  “You should go home, be with your family.”

  “You’re my family.”

  “Your kids at least.”

  “What is this, Kiernan?” She could feel an angry knot bulging in her throat. “Are we not in this together? Are you having second thoughts about everything or what?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Do you have any concept of what I’ve already sacrificed for you?”

  She couldn’t see all of his face in the mirror on the opposite wall, but she could see his eyes. Gaping into nothing. A thousand-yard stare. Somewhere other than this room. He’d gone deep, and she’d sensed it even before this moment, in the way he’d made love to her. Something held back. Something missing.

  She climbed out of bed and walked over to her dress where she’d thrown it against the wall two hours ago.

  “You don’t feel it?” he asked. “Not at all?”

  “I don’t understand what—”

  “Forget it.”

  “Kiernan—”

  “Fucking forget it.”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  Dee pulled the straps over her shoulders as Kiernan glared at her through the cloud of smoke around his head. He was forty-one years old, with short black hair, and a two-day shadow that reminded her so much of her father.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “You and I are not the same anymore, Dee.”

  “Did I do something or—”

  “I’m not talking about our relationship. It’s deeper. It’s…so much more profound than that.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  She was standing by the window. The air coming in was cool and it smelled of the city and the desert that surrounded it. A pair of gunshots drew her attention, and when she looked through the glass she saw grids of darkness overspreading the city.

  Dee glanced back at Kiernan, and she’d just opened her mouth to say something when the lights and the television in their room cut out.

  She froze.

  Her heart accelerating.

  Couldn’t see anything but the flare and fade of Kiernan’s tobacco ember.

  Heard him exhale in the dark, and then his voice, all the more terrifying for its evenness.

  “You need to get away from me right now,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s this part of me, Dee, getting stronger every time I breathe in, that wants to hurt you.”

  “Why?”

  She heard the covers rip back. The sound of Kiernan rushing across the carpet.

  He stopped inches from her.

  She smelled the tobacco on his breath, and when she palmed his chest, felt his body shaking.

  “What’s happening to you?”

  “I don’t know, but I can’t stop it, Dee. Please remember that I love you.”

  He put his hands on her bare shoulders, and she thought he was going to kiss her, but then she was flying through darkness across the room.

  She crashed into the entertainment center, stunned, her shoulder throbbing from the impact.

  Kiernan shouted, “Now get the fuck out while you still can.”

  To continue reading RUN by Blake Crouch, visit your library or favorite ebook retailer and pick up a copy today.

  A Thriller

  J. A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson

  NOT TOO LONG AGO…

  “Whenever possible, avoid engaging the enemy,” The Instructor said. “If engaged, run. Fighting should be your last resort. Patriotism has its place, but it costs millions of dollars to train people like you. You’re more valuable than the mission. If things go sour, flee.”

  This is fun I typed. Then I hit enter and waited for the reply. It popped up on my computer screen a moment later.

  No pressure, but are we ever going
to meet IRL?

  I took the last sip from my bottled water and tried to ignore the jitter under my rib cage. In real life. He assumes I have one.

  I tossed the empty over my shoulder without looking. The sound it made confirmed I’d hit the garbage can.

  How do I know you’re not some lunatic stalker? Or even worse, weigh eighty pounds more than your jpg?

  I’d been chatting with Victor9904 almost daily for the past two weeks. I liked him, and he was the first guy I had ever hooked up with online that I wanted to meet in person. That alone made me a little nervous. Dating, for me, was complicated. Except for stretches of time when I was abroad, I kept to a tight routine. Cruising bars looking for men wasn’t part of that routine.

  Do you have a webcam? he typed.

  Another jitter, this time tougher to ignore. Chatting online was one thing. Letting him see me was riskier.

  Yes. But I haven’t showered yet this morning.

  Neither have I. You chicken?

  I smiled. I don’t scare easily.

  OK. I’ll set up a private webcam chat room and send you the URL. Give me a minute…

  Sounds good.

  I didn’t rush to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror, but I may have moved a little quicker than normal. My dark hair was shorter than I would have preferred, but it never got in my face and was easy to manage and conceal. I finger combed it, deemed it fine, and wiped a toast crumb from the corner of my mouth. I was wearing what I’d slept in, an old tee and some baggy sweat pants. Since I’d already told him I hadn’t showered, changing into nice clothes and putting on make-up would be disingenuous.

  Besides, if a guy couldn’t accept the way a woman looked when she woke up, he wasn’t worth waking up next to.

  Not that I was planning any sleepovers.

  Sex, on the other hand… it had been too long.

  I wandered back to my computer, sat down, and noted my pulse was a tiny bit faster than normal. My webcam was built into the monitor. I switched on the application, and a few seconds later Victor IMed me the address. I typed in the URL, and then there he was, filling my computer screen, smiling boyishly.

  He was actually cuter than his jpg. Blond hair. Strong chin, covered in stubble. Broad shoulders. Around my age, early thirties, and his blue eyes were several shades lighter than mine.

  He said something, which I lip-read to be, Good morning, Carmen. Nice to finally see you. Are you wearing a Cubs t-shirt?

  I unmuted the picture and adjusted the volume.

  “Yes, I am.” I smiled. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  Victor stood up, revealing the White Sox logo on his jersey. Behind him I could make out a sofa, but the room details were blurry beyond that. With the sound level up, I heard his cat, a calico named Mozart, meow in the background.

  “I’m a season ticket holder.” His voice was deep, rich, pure Chicago south-side. He sat down, grinning. “But I’m willing to work through this if you are.”

  I shook my head, feigning disapproval. “I dunno. Season tickets? I’m not sure I could get over something like that.”

  “Are you asking me to give up the Sox when we haven’t even had a first date yet?”

  “If I did ask, what would you say?”

  He rubbed his chin. “On one hand, I don’t want you to think I’m a pushover. On the other hand, if this is what you look like before a shower, giving up the Sox doesn’t seem like that big a sacrifice.”

  I granted him a smile for that one. “You should see me juggle.”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever used a webcam for something other than business.” He leaned forward, like we were talking over a coffee table. “It’s weird. Intimate, but distant at the same time.”

  “I agree.” I took a breath and a plunge. “Dinner would be better, I think.”

  “Are you free tonight?”

  I pretended to consider it. “Yes.”

  “I could pick you up. Have we reached a level of trust where you’re willing to tell me where you live?”

  “Let’s meet someplace.” Only one person in the world actually knew where I lived, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  “You like German food, right?”

  I nodded, remembering I’d mentioned that during our very first text chat.

  “How about Mirabel’s on Addison?” he said. “Six o’clock?”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “Me, too. But now it’s almost nine, and I’m on call. Gotta get ready for work.”

  “Off to save some lives?”

  “I’m hoping for a slow day. Maybe I’ll get lucky and no one in Chi-town will dial 911 during my shift. But if I do have to heroically spring into action,” he winked at me, “I’ll be ready.”

  “See you later, Victor.”

  “See you, Carmen.”

  He switched off the camera. I initiated my tracking software, locating his IP address. It was the same one he always used. Previously, I’d hacked his ISP and gotten his billing information, and from there it had been easy to run a background check. Victor Cormack, as far as I could research using both public and private records, had been telling me the truth about his job, his education, his past. On the surface, he was a normal, average person.

  But anyone checking out my identity would assume the same about me.

  I erased my Internet footsteps, deleting cookies, clearing the cache, and reformatting the C drive. A pain in the ass to do every time I went online, but a necessary one. Then I wiped the keyboard clean with a spritz of Windex and began my morning work-out.

  Halfway into it, my encrypted cell phone rang. I finished my two-hundred thirty-ninth push-up, slid the sweaty bangs off my eyebrows with my forearm, and padded over to the breakfast bar to answer it. Only one person—the same person who knew my address—had this number. A call meant work. And work couldn’t be refused. The phone was even waterproof so I could take it into the shower.

  I hit the connect button on the touch screen and waited, habit making me tune in to my surroundings. I could smell traces of the green pepper omelet and wheat toast I’d had for breakfast, along with a slightly sour odor coming from the sink telling me dishes needed to be done. The ambient sounds were unremarkable; the thermostat kicking on, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of a wall clock hanging over my computer, pigeons warbling outside.

  To continue reading FLEE by J. A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson, visit your library or favorite ebook retailer and pick up a copy today.

  Part of the appeal of my series about the half-American, half-Japanese assassin John Rain seems to be Rain’s realistic tactics. It’s true that Rain, like his author, has a black belt in judo and is a veteran of certain government firearms and other defensive tactics courses, but these have relatively little to do with Rain’s continued longevity. Rather, Rain’s ultimate expertise, and the key to his survival, lies in his ability to think like the opposition.

  Okay, get out your notepad, because:

  All effective personal protection, all effective security, all true self-defense, is based on the ability and willingness to think like the opposition.

  I’m writing this article on my laptop in a crowded coffee shop I like. There are a number of other people around me similarly engaged. I think to myself, If I wanted to steal a laptop, this would be a pretty good place to do it. You come in, order coffee and a muffin, sit, and wait. Eventually, one of these computer users is going to get up and make a quick trip to the bathroom. He’ll be thinking, “Hey, I’ll only be gone for a minute.” He doesn’t know that a minute is all I need to get up and walk out with his $3000 PowerBook. (Note how criminals are adept at thinking like their victims. You need to treat them with the same respect.)

  Okay. I’ve determined where the opposition is planning on carrying out his crime (this coffee shop), and I know how he’s going to do it (snatch and dash). I now have options:

  avoid the coffee sho
p entirely (avoid where the crime will occur);

  secure my laptop to a chair with a twenty dollar Kensington security cable (avoid how the crime will occur — it’s hard to employ bolt cutters unobtrusively in a coffee shop, or to carry away a laptop that has a chair hanging off it); and

  hope to catch the thief in the act, chase him down, engage him with violence.

  Of these three options, #2 makes the most sense for me. The first is too costly — I like this coffee shop and get a lot of work done here. The third is also too costly, and too uncertain. Why fight when you can avoid the fight in the first place? This is self-defense we’re talking about, remember, self-protection. Not fighting, not melodrama. As for the second, yes, it’s true these measures won’t render the crime impossible. But what measures ever do? The point is to make the crime difficult enough to carry out that the criminal chooses to pursue his aims elsewhere. Yes, if twenty-seven ninjas have dedicated their lives to stealing your laptop and have managed to track you to the coffee shop, they’ll probably manage to get your laptop while you’re in the bathroom even if you’ve secured it to a chair. But more likely, your opposition will be someone who is as happy stealing your laptop as someone else’s. By making yours the marginally more difficult target, you will encourage him to steal someone else’s.