by G. K. Parks
Retrieving my knife, I ran toward the back of the warehouse. It was time to go. Although my initial count of Abelard’s resources showed only three other guys, there were still another two or three in the warehouse. They were fast approaching, and I lost sight of Abelard and Jean-Pierre.
Reaching the back wall, I found a few blacked out windows. I was just about to smash through one of them when I heard sirens. This better be the goddamn cavalry, I thought bitterly as I used the pipe to shatter the window, running the metal cylinder around the edges to break away the remaining shards of glass. I needed to get out of here, now. The men who had been closing in appeared to have retreated at the sound of sirens.
Grasping the window frame, I boosted myself up toward freedom, but someone grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me down. Knife at the ready, I spun around and confronted Jean-Pierre. He adopted a fighting stance, and we carefully assessed one another.
“It’s over,” I told him. “The way I see it, you can make a break for it and be on the run forever, or you can surrender and turn state’s evidence. You used to be one of the good guys.” I wasn’t sure if I could reason with him, but in a fight, he would win. He was stronger, more thoroughly trained, and hadn’t just gone three rounds with an electric-chair wannabe.
Twenty
“Go,” Jean-Pierre said firmly. I didn’t move. “Allez!” he screamed.
I turned and pulled myself out the broken window, noticing the men who had been in pursuit were now crumpled in unconscious heaps on the ground. Did Jean-Pierre take them out and assist my escape? I couldn’t be sure, but right now, I had to get out of here. Climbing out the window, I landed face first on the ground and was immediately surrounded by the police tactical unit.
They shouted at me in French, so I stayed where I was, not moving. “You’re late,” I yelled at them. At least ten weapons were trained on me while a couple of guys held me roughly against the ground, handcuffed me, and secured my knife. Brilliant, arrest the goddamn hostage. If I hadn’t just been through the wringer, I might have said as much. Instead, I remained face down on the ground until I heard Ryan’s Irish accent breaking through all the French.
“Get off of her,” he was getting closer, “and take those bloody cuffs off. Now.” Someone gently released the cold metal from my battered and bleeding wrists.
“What happened? You stopped for a fucking croissant on the way here?” I asked as Ryan helped me to my feet. “I thought you had my back.”
“I’m here now.” He ushered me out of the danger zone, throwing a jacket emblazoned with the word police over my shoulders, and placed me inside one of the SUVs parked on the outskirts of the strike zone.
“Gustav’s not dead. He’s inside, or he was inside. Abelard, too,” I relayed as much pertinent information as I could.
“I know. Agent Jablonsky phoned us. We’ll get them,” Ryan promised. He assessed my appearance. “Are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?”
He gently rolled up one of my blood-soaked sleeves and looked at my wrist.
“Donough,” a voice called, and he turned. “There’s something inside you need to see.”
“Go. I’ll be fine.”
He looked at me uncertainly before heading for the warehouse. I shut my eyes and rested my head against the car seat. I wasn’t dead. Maybe run over by a steamroller and set on fire, but not dead.
“Madame Parker.” Reneaux stood in front of me. I didn’t know how long I had been sitting in the SUV or how long he had been standing there. A substantial amount of time must have passed since most of the police vehicles were gone. “It seems you are evidence.” I wasn’t sure if Reneaux’s English was a little faulty or my ability to process words was impaired. “How do you feel about going to the crime lab, where a medic will meet you, instead of the hospital?”
“Okay.” I would have agreed to anything at this point. Reneaux nodded, and Ryan got in on the driver’s side. Turning in the seat so I was facing forward, I let Reneaux shut my door.
“What happened back there?” Ryan asked, flipping on the siren and driving at breakneck speed to the police station.
I gave him the play-by-play, knowing I would be repeating this story a few more times. “Did you get him? Both of them?” I asked.
He turned and looked at me sadly. “We have Gustav and quite a few people from Abelard’s inner circle.”
“Abelard?” I hoped his ass was shot full of holes.
“He wasn’t there.”
“That son of a bitch got away?”
“I promise we will track him to the bloody ends of the earth if we have to. The motherfucker will not get away again.”
The rest of the ride continued in silence. I was exhausted. My head pounded, and every inch of my body ached. It was almost five a.m. I spent nearly six hours trapped in that warehouse. No wonder I felt like shit. Apparently, a reasonable timeframe to move in included figuring in the time difference between home and Paris.
Ryan parked the SUV and came around to open my door. His eyes examined the cut on my chest, my opened and bloodied shirt, and my wrists. “It’s been a hell of a night. Maybe I should take you to the emergency room instead.”
Before I could respond, a group of police personnel gathered in preparation for evidence collection and to take my statement. “Too late now,” I muttered as he helped me out of the vehicle.
Immediately, I was greeted by a woman who worked in evidence collection and an overly friendly female EMT. I was ushered into one of the larger lab areas where my shirt was confiscated. Anything covered in blood was considered evidence, which seemed ridiculous, but whatever made these people happy. It’s not like I needed a ripped, bloodstained shirt as a reminder of tonight. I had all my fond memories that would never go away, no matter how hard I tried to repress them. My injuries were photographed, from my wrists to the burns on my chest to the slice along my clavicle.
Someone else came in to question me while the medic hooked up an EKG to see if I sustained any muscle damage to my heart. Thankfully, the test came out negative. She drew blood for a toxicology screening, which would probably come back positive for something. After being subjected to a basic neurological exam to rule out a concussion or other head injury, my blood pressure was taken, and I was allowed to put on a shirt, which they apparently stocked for this exact purpose. My wrists were bandaged, and I was permitted to clean up.
Finally, I was escorted upstairs where I gave Reneaux the rundown for his official debrief. When that was completed, I located a couch down the hall from the locker rooms. Ryan found me sprawled out with my eyes closed.
“I didn’t know where you went.” He sat on the edge, next to me. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a pair of those pink, fuzzy cuffs handy when the tactical team got too overzealous doing their jobs.”
I opened one eye and looked at him. “What a shame.” I shut my eyes.
“Your medical report came back,” he continued, not getting the hint I didn’t feel like talking. “You tested positive for chloroform. You’re also anemic, dehydrated, and most likely suffering from exhaustion. They wanted to hook you up to an IV to replenish your fluids, but I warned them you would probably tell them exactly what they could do with that IV.”
I looked at him and snorted. “How is it you already know me so well?” I offered a brief grin, imagining inflicting my own torture upon nurses who didn’t understand I had been through enough tonight. “And you forgot the part about how everything aches, but I can’t complain. After all, I’m still breathing,” I said sarcastically.
Ryan remained tight-lipped but got up and bought a bottle of water from the vending machine. “Drink this.”
“I was hoping for something a lot stronger,” I muttered, but I obediently unscrewed the cap and took a sip. I really was thirsty and in need of replacing the fluids I had lost. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost ten. The evidence team is still working the scene, but we’ve finished processing Gustav and
four of Abelard’s guys. The fifth is in intensive care. They’re uncertain if he’ll pull through.” He cocked his head to the side and studied me. “You’re more lethal than you look.”
I chuckled despite the seriousness of the situation. My emotions were off-kilter from lack of sleep. Plus, I was stuck at the police station until everything was processed, especially since I had yet to make or sign an official statement of my own. It was going to be a long day.
“Madame Parker,” Reneaux appeared at the end of the hallway, “there is an urgent phone call for you from Agent Jablonsky. You may use my office.”
I stood up and shrugged at Ryan before following Reneaux down the hallway. He handed me the phone and went out to the squad room to give me some privacy. “Mark?” I asked.
“Parker, goddamn, I’ve been up all night, trying to track you down. What happened? You’re making this old man worry. Why didn’t you call me back?”
“Sorry, I lost track of time, hanging around,” I replied bitterly. Slumping into Reneaux’s chair, I hoped he wouldn’t mind. “I’m probably not allowed to discuss things at the moment, but I’ll fill you in when I get back. If you need anything, leave a message at the hotel. It’s the only phone I have.”
“I’ve been hearing a lot of chatter. Are you okay?”
“Still breathing,” I said before disconnecting. Reneaux had a nice little sofa against the wall of his office, and I looked at it sadly as I went to thank him for the use of his phone.
“Please, Madame,” Reneaux ushered me back into his office, “make yourself comfortable. I’ll have a translator and officer sent up to take your statement and file a report, and then we’ll find someone to give you a ride back to your hotel to get cleaned up before we interrogate Abelard’s cohorts.”
Crawling onto the sofa, I tried to get comfortable. I understood why they needed to dot the ‘I’s and cross the ‘T’s, but I was tired and achy. Why couldn’t we do this tomorrow? Reneaux took a seat behind his desk and typed his report while we waited for the officer and translator to appear. Ryan escorted them in and brought me another bottle of water and a sandwich. He felt guilty for not getting there sooner. Oh well.
I ate as I relayed the entire story once again to the officers. Everything I said was written in English and transcribed in French. Life would be easier if we had one universal language, but that was probably just my exhaustion being bitchy. I reread the entire thing and signed it. They cross-referenced the photos of my torture, as they were referring to it, with my statement and placed it neatly into a case file. Hopefully, the French prosecutor would be satisfied. I wasn’t familiar with France’s judicial system, but as long as I was granted some type of confidential status and not required to appear for the actual proceedings, I didn’t care.
When we were finished, Ryan gave me a ride to my hotel. We took the elevator up to my room, and he came inside once I opened the door. I just wanted to crawl into bed and never move again.
“Freshen up, we have to be back in a couple of hours,” he sounded almost as tired as I felt.
“And I thought the overtime at home was crappy.” I dug through my duffel bag for something to wear that would be comfortable and also professional. “You’ve been on all night. Can’t we just play hooky?”
He assessed my appearance carefully. “If you want a doctor’s note, I’d be happy to drop you off at the hospital and make sure you are, in fact, okay. I never trust those EMTs and medics. What the bloody hell do they know?”
“I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible.” I thought about Martin’s offer to use the private jet. “Any way I can get the hell out of here by Friday?” Walking into the bathroom and turning on the water, I plugged the drain so the tub could fill. Then I asked Ryan to cut the bandages off my wrists. The bleeding had stopped hours ago.
“I’ll make it happen,” he assured, pulling out his pocket knife, and I looked away as he cut through the medical tape. Blades and bindings were making me squeamish. I glanced at the neatly made bed I hadn’t slept in.
“If you want to catch some shut-eye, feel free.” I went back into the bathroom and closed the door. The hot water relaxed my aching muscles, but it stung my wrists and made the blistered skin on my chest burn more than usual. I was trying very hard not to fall asleep in the bathtub when Ryan knocked on the door.
“Are you almost ready?” he asked gently.
I got out of the tub and dried off. “Ten minutes.” I dressed and tied my wet hair back, opening the door and holding out my wrists for him to assess. “I’m not sure what to do about this. I look like an overzealous suicide attempt gone wrong.”
“Bloody hell.” He glanced at my wrists, but his eyes were drawn to the burn marks on my chest, clearly visible over the spaghetti strap tank top I was wearing to keep from irritating my skin further. “We should have moved in sooner. Alex, I am so sorry.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Putting on a jacket, I rolled up the sleeves so Ryan could re-bandage my wrists before picking up my purse and room key. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Twenty-one
Interrogations had been going on all afternoon. Claude and Francois had been at the warehouse and detained by the French police. I had no input on Francois’ involvement, except he was a bartender. Claude, on the other hand, provided Abelard with his little electric toy. One of the men from the back room had been arrested, but I had little to no interaction with him, so I watched as the questions rambled on quickly in French. Reneaux provided a translator, and as I sat in the observation room, watching the interrogations, she effortlessly changed the words from French to English. In between interviews, Reneaux or Ryan would come in and ask if I could verify details or if I had any input. For the most part, I remained silent.
It was a little after three o’clock when Jean-Pierre was escorted into the interrogation room. His ankles were shackled, and his wrists were bound. He stared at the two-way mirror as if he knew I was on the other side of the glass. Ryan and another detective questioned him in French, but Jean-Pierre kept his responses in English.
“Son of a bitch,” I cursed, stalking back and forth like a lion. My eyes never left his form. When I could no longer stand it, I tapped on the glass. Ryan turned, nodded almost imperceptibly, and excused himself for a minute.
“What?” he asked as he came into the observation room.
“I want in there.” My pacing stopped, but I was still moving, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. I couldn’t calm down, and I couldn’t sit still.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? He’s trying to get to you. He knows you’re in here. Why else would he be conversing in English?”
“So we let him.” I was ready to play with fire. “You can haul me out of there anytime you want if things get out of hand.”
Ryan glanced through the window at Gustav, who stared right at us as if he could see through the mirrored glass. “I need approval.” He attempted to dissuade me, but it wasn’t working.
“Go find Reneaux.”
“You stay here until I get back. I don’t want our best lead on Abelard to end up dead while I’m gone.”
A couple of minutes later Ryan and Reneaux entered the room. “Madame, are you sure you want to do this?” Reneaux asked cautiously.
“Why not? He’s playing some game. We might as well find out what it is.”
“D’accord. I will stay here and watch the exchange.” Reneaux looked at Ryan. “If you see things turning in a negative direction, get her out of there.” Ryan agreed, and we entered the interrogation room.
“Bonjour, Ali.” Jean-Pierre gave me a big smile.
I wanted to physically remove it from his face, but instead, I ignored it and took a seat diagonally across from him. I stared at him, silently seething. There were no words to speak, so I just sat there as Ryan continued the interrogation in English. Jean-Pierre wouldn’t cooperate, and Ryan became more and more agitated. Given the fact he’d been out in the cold for the l
ast eighteen months and up all night, I could understand why his technique left a little to be desired.
“Why did you let me go?” My icy tone and sudden interruption surprised both Ryan and Jean-Pierre. Ryan stepped back and leaned against the wall, staring at Jean-Pierre. I was permitted to run the show, at least for the moment.
“What else should I have done?” Jean-Pierre answered my question with a question. I shrugged. He didn’t get to ask the questions, and I damn sure wasn’t going to answer them.
“How many other people have you tortured and killed?” I asked. “Did you do it all for Abelard or maybe your own personal vendetta, too?”
“I never meant to hurt you. You weren’t supposed to get caught up in this. I told you to move on. I sent you a video of the explosion. You were supposed to get the hint and drop the entire thing.” He slammed his palms against the table.
“Why?” My lips curled into an evil grin. “Afraid I would figure out you were behind the smuggling and helping to create a crime syndicate with Abelard?” Ryan teetered against the wall, perhaps considering stopping me. I leaned back in the chair and waited, but Jean-Pierre didn’t answer. “Did you kill Jacques Marset?”
He took a deep breath, and I saw his cheek twitch. He looked away, staring at the wall. “Marset double-crossed the wrong man.”
“So you killed him? And being the sick, twisted bastard that you are, you videotaped it and sent it to me. How did you end up here? When did you become this guy?”
“Ali,” his eyes looked pitiful, and I wanted to slap him, “I did what I had to do.”
“Did you also send the men to my apartment to beat the hell out of me? Stay away or else, was that the message you wanted conveyed?”
Jean-Pierre looked genuinely shocked. “He sent men to your apartment? I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t know.”
For once, I was inclined to believe him.
