by Mark Pryor
“Hush little man, go to sleep,” he snarled.
Hugo went back to the rope and pulled the trap door all the way open. A rickety wooden ladder unfurled from above.
“Light, quickly,” he said to Tom, and covered the opening with his gun. “I'll go up. Wait ’til I clear it.” Leading with his gun, Hugo started up the ladder. At the top, he peeked into the room. It was dim, but looked empty. A musty smell enveloped him as he stuck his head through the gap. Mothballs? He heaved himself into the room and felt thin, worn carpet under his hands and knees.
Behind him, a sound.
He swung around and leveled his gun as a dark figure flitted across the back of the room. He fired twice and the figure dropped. Hugo pivoted to check for other hidden assailants, but saw no one. He moved to the fallen man, eyes straining in case he moved, his finger on the trigger. The man lay on his front and Hugo took a leaf from Tom's book and delivered a hefty kick. No response. Hugo flipped him over with his foot and kicked the man's gun into the corner. A quick check for a pulse told him the man was dead.
The darkness in the room had softened, and Hugo could now see from the back of the apartment to the front. Empty.
“I'm clear,” he called, but Tom was already at the top of the ladder. Hugo looked around and noticed for the first time a windowless door not ten feet from the opening, set into the back wall of the house. A fire escape, and probably where the dead man was headed. There'd been no outside staircase on the plans Emma sent, so Gravois must have built one.
As Tom hauled himself into the room, Hugo turned his attention to the front of the house. If there had once been a wall dividing this space into two, it was now gone. It looked like an empty attic, devoid of furniture or decoration, just a stack of five or six boxes in the far corner.
Hugo started toward them, but froze when he heard the crackle of gunfire from behind the house. He turned and ran past the trap door to the fire escape. Tom was already there, wrenching the door open. Light flooded into the room and both men stood inside the doorway, waiting for their eyes to adjust.
“Let's go,” Tom said. He ducked through the door with his gun up, Hugo right behind him. An iron stairway spiraled down into the shared garden. Hugo scanned the area, a rectangle of grass and a few bushes, privacy maintained by a stone wall. No one in sight. At the back, an iron gate stood open.
“Where the fuck is Garcia?” Tom said.
“No idea,” Hugo replied. How many shots had they heard? Two? Three? They reached the foot of the fire escape without seeing any dead or wounded. “Let's go. Keep an eye on those bushes.”
“No shit,” Tom muttered.
They moved through the garden side-by-side. Once, Hugo saw movement in an upstairs apartment window a few houses down, the surprised face of an old man who quickly withdrew. As they reached the gate, they heard sirens. Hugo caught Tom's eye and knew they were thinking the same thing: Claudia. Hugo went through the gate first, dropping down to one knee, aiming left. Tom was a split second behind, covering the right side. The alleyway, the one Garcia had come down as they entered the house, was empty.
Almost.
“Look.” Tom pointed at four shell cases on the ground. They both knelt to look, but not touch. From two different guns, Hugo saw, one a .40 and the other from a smaller .22. Hugo didn't know which was from Garcia's gun, if either.
They stood and moved quickly down the alley, sirens wailing louder now. As they neared the entrance to the alleyway, two more shots rang out. Hugo pointed downward to a pool of blood, but the men barely slowed, Claudia their concern now because the shots sounded close to the car. They turned left onto Rue Audran and ran up to the corner, in front of the house.
As they reached Rue Véron, Hugo looked down the street to where they'd left Claudia. The car was still there, but a dark form lay on the sidewalk about twenty yards away, between them and the vehicle. Tom covered the body with his gun as they jogged forward, Hugo covering the road around them. There were only two other parked cars on the street, on their right, but plenty of other places a gunman could hide.
Thirty feet from the figure on the ground, Hugo knew it wasn't Garcia. He strained to see inside the car, but couldn't. If Claudia was in there, she was either hunkered down or shot. He ran faster, and as they got within feet of the person on the ground, a figure rose from behind the car. Hugo swung his gun toward it and was about to pull the trigger when he recognized Claudia.
Hugo ran toward her as Tom stopped to check on the still form on the sidewalk, a man Hugo didn't recognize, a man who was dead. Hugo ran around the car and found a wounded Garcia propped against the rear tire. Claudia stood behind him, a gun in her hand.
“I think I killed him,” she said, indicating the man on the sidewalk.
“Fucking right you did,” Tom said, arriving breathless. “Dead as a doornail.”
“I'm not sure that translates,” Hugo grimaced. He turned to Garcia. “Was he the only one?”
“Oui,” Garcia said. “I shot from the gate. I thought I'd knocked him down, but he disappeared into some bushes. As I was leaving the alleyway to look, he shot me in the back. I managed to get here, to the car, but I couldn't lift my gun.” Pale lips gave Claudia a smile, the best praise he could muster. “I thought he would kill us both, but my friend here can shoot.”
That explained the shell casings from different guns; they'd both fired from the same spot. Hugo looked at the wound, which had bled a lot but seemed to be superficial. It was either a deep graze or the bullet had passed through the flesh and kept going without hitting any arteries or bones.
“He got your shoulder,” Hugo said. “You'll live.” He turned to Claudia. “I had no idea.”
She smiled weakly. “I'm just full of surprises.”
“Tell me about it later. But nice work.”
He took Claudia's scarf and folded it up, then put it into her hand and showed her where, and how hard, to press it on Garcia's wound.
Hugo stood and looked back toward the house on Rue Véron. The street was still empty, but he didn't want anyone popping up from behind to give them a last-second surprise. He saw Tom doing the same. As the sirens grew louder, the realization hit him. There was no legal justification whatsoever for his friend being there, especially with a gun.
“Tom.” His voice was urgent. “You need to get out of here.”
Tom looked at him for a second, then nodded. “Yeah, I was wondering how you were going to explain me,” he said. He tucked his gun back inside his jacket and patted Garcia once on the head, winked at Hugo, then started down Rue Véron. They watched as he rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight.
“Bon,” said Garcia. “It was just us. Merci. He would have been too much paperwork. And maybe my job.”
Two police cars screeched around the corner from Rue Gemain Pilon, at the western end of the street, their lights flashing. They stopped beside each other thirty yards away, and four policemen piled out, guns drawn.
“Take out my badge, show it to them,” Garcia said.
Hugo pulled Garcia's badge from his inside pocket and held it up. He'd already thrown his and Garcia's guns onto the sidewalk, visibly out of reach. Claudia also had her hands up. One of the officers appeared to recognize Garcia and holstered his weapon, then reached into his car and grabbed his radio. In the quiet that had fallen over the street, Hugo heard him order an ambulance to approach. It must have been waiting around the corner out of the line of fire, because five seconds later it turned into Rue Véron and lurched to a halt behind the police cars. The four officers and two paramedics ran toward them, two of the cops gesturing for them to lower their hands.
As the medics tended to Garcia, Hugo moved across the street with one of the policemen, a gray-haired detective who gave his name as Duguey. He told him what had happened, what to find in the house. As he talked, his mind flipped back over events, making sure there was nothing left at the scene that would point to a third person, to Tom. They should have though
t of that before, he knew, but he was pretty sure Tom was invisible now. His main contribution had been quieting the man Hugo had shot in the foot. And he wouldn't be a problem because, even assuming that he'd seen who'd hit him, he could say what he liked and the police would call him a liar if Hugo and Garcia disagreed.
Hugo and the detective looked over as the medics loaded Garcia onto a gurney and began wheeling him toward the ambulance. They walked over to him and Claudia joined them.
“I'll be fine.” Garcia's smile was thin, but genuine. “But let's not do this again, eh?”
“Fair enough,” Hugo said. “You take care, capitaine. We'll send flowers.”
“Non,” Garcia said. “They make me sneeze, and that would hurt.”
Claudia put a hand on his good arm and squeezed. “Merci.”
“De rien.” Garcia shook his head. “Just doing my job. And anyway, I should be thanking you.”
They moved out of the way and the medics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance. They watched as it backed out of the narrow street and then took off, sirens and lights blaring, toward the Boulevard de Clichy and the hospital.
“Monsieur Marston?” It was Duguey. “My superior, Commissaire Delacroix, will be here in five minutes, would you mind waiting?”
“Not at all,” Hugo said. He sat beside Claudia on the curb and put an arm around her.
“You going to tell me what this was about?” she asked.
“Yep,” Hugo said. “But I'm not sure that it's over yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“We got a couple of the bad guys, but there are more out there. One of them very bad.” Hugo looked up as a white car pulled into the street. A uniformed gendarme waved it through, then saluted as it passed him.
Had he been a foot taller, Commissaire Delacroix would have resembled a bear. Round, with thick arms and legs, his face was half hidden by a dark brown beard. Intelligent eyes, thought Hugo, intelligent and curious. They shook hands, and Commissaire Delacroix led him away from Claudia.
“How is she? A shock for a civilian.”
Some civilian, Hugo thought. “Not as bad as being shot, and she survived that.”
“I recommend brandy. Now, you understand this is a serious matter. I have been supervising Capitaine Garcia on this case and didn't know about this raid. For that he will face some difficult questions.”
Hugo went on the defensive, explaining the possibility of a leak and Garcia's reticence at abandoning protocol. The raid had been his own idea, Hugo said, and Garcia had come along to ensure the safety of French citizens and make sure Hugo didn't go too far. To Hugo's surprise, Commissaire Delacroix nodded and smiled.
“I trust Capitaine Garcia, and I'm glad you are able to speak on his behalf.” He turned and looked at the house. “Now, we need to find this Gravois. He is our first priority,” he said.
“Agreed,” Hugo nodded, “and even if you do have a leak, we'll have to move fast.”
“‘We’?”
Hugo smiled. “You, with as much help from me as you require.”
The commissaire nodded and called over one of the policemen. Hugo gave the man a detailed description of Gravois.
“Bien,” said Delacroix, “I will send someone to his offices and his home. We'll have the train stations and airports watched, too, as best we can. You said he is crippled. Do you suppose he drives?”
“He might,” said Hugo. “But I don't know what kind of car, and he'd probably need a driver.”
“We'll notify the border authorities, flag his passport, not that that's much use these days. But on the off chance that he's stopped, we'll be notified. I'll call the US Embassy to let you know if that happens.” They shook hands again. “If you would come to the prefecture tomorrow for a full statement, I would be grateful. For now, we will take Capitaine Garcia's car. One of my men can give you a ride to the embassy.”
“No, thanks.” Hugo wanted to walk to clear his mind and figure out his next step. Place Pigalle was a couple of blocks away, he could get the metro from there. “Claudia, do you want to walk with me or go with the police?”
“Go where?” she smiled thinly. “I'm fine, Hugo. Plus, if any more bad guys appear I may need to save your ass next.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Delacroix said. “I'll need your weapon.”
Hugo hesitated. “May I ask why?”
“It's evidence for our investigation. Our ballistics people will need to make sure it matches with any bullets fired at the house. A formality, I'll have it back to you as soon as possible.”
Reluctantly, Hugo handed it over. The joys of international cooperation, he thought. Ambassador Taylor would be proud.
It was a downhill walk from Rue Véron toward Pigalle, and Hugo felt the adrenaline slowly drain from his limbs, his body loosening and his mind clearing as they got further away from the house.
Claudia was quiet, her hands dug deep into her pockets and her head down. He knew she was processing what she'd seen and done, trying to equate the violence and fear of the afternoon with all the previous experiences of her life. And he knew that no one, reporter, policeman, or even soldier, escaped their first armed and bloody confrontation intact, especially after what she'd been through just hours before. She was tougher than he'd imagined, so he'd let her deal with it on her own, for now.
She shivered as they turned into Rue Cousteau, a cobbled and narrow one-way street. Hugo put his arm around her, and she leaned into him as they walked. As they reached the end of the street, the sound of the traffic from Boulevard Clichy grew louder and seemed to disturb Claudia. On the corner was a small café, Le Chat Blanc, and he took her inside. Hugo nodded to the bartender and chose a table near the back of the café. He helped Claudia to sit, then went to the bar and ordered.
“Deux cafés, et deux whiskies, s'il vous plait.” As he waited, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Tom. On the fifth ring, his friend answered. “Where are you?” Hugo asked.
The phone clicked dead and Hugo felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Right behind you, buddy,” Tom grinned.
“Jesus, what are you doing here?”
“Same as you.” Tom held up a whisky glass. “Except you're two behind.”
Claudia heard their voices and looked up, surprise at seeing Tom turning to pleasure. Drinks in hand, the men went to the table. Claudia took the whisky glass with a grateful smile and left Hugo to put the coffee on the table in front of her.
“Hot chick with a gun, it's like the movies, eh?” Tom said, a little too gleefully for Hugo's liking.
“Leave her alone.”
“OK, OK.” Tom's tone became serious. “I feel like an ass for letting Chabot get killed.”
“Not our fault,” said Hugo. “But me too.”
“That fucking Gravois or Dominguez—”
“Dobrescu—”
“Whatever the fuck his name is. He's some psycho.”
Claudia roused herself, suddenly alive again. “Wait, are you saying Gravois is Anton Dobrescu? Are you serious?”
“Yes,” said Hugo. “Long story, but the bottom line is that he knows we're on to him.”
“You think?” Tom said. “He may still rely on the fact we think he's dead. Or, he thinks we think he's dead.” He waved a hand. “Fuck it, I'm confusing myself now.”
Hugo smiled. “I know what you mean, but that's a risky assumption for him. He knows we're on to Gravois, and no disguise is perfect. First time he's fingerprinted, it's all over.”
“So you think he'll disappear?” Claudia asked.
“Wouldn't you?” Hugo replied.
“Fucking right,” Tom said. “Once those North Africans find out he's here, he'll be wishing he was burned alive.” He emptied his glass. “So what do we do?”
“Nothing.” Hugo shrugged and told Tom about his talk with Commissaire Delacroix.
“You want to leave it to them, then? Yeah, right.” Tom looked around for a waiter, then saw Hugo's face. “Holy shit, yo
u're serious.”
“What can we do? The police are looking for him, they're watching the airports, train stations, and borders—”
“This is new Europe, dummy, they don't have borders anymore.”
“Even so, what can we do that they can't?”
Tom muttered into his glass, but Hugo knew he had no answer.
Hugo looked at Claudia. She was sitting back in her chair, oblivious to them, her eyes half closed and her lips slightly apart. Hugo had an urge to kiss them but knew this wasn't the time or place. At least she looks relaxed, he thought. He put his hand on hers and said, “Quick question.”
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Sure.”
“David Durand. He's the dirty cop, and you were helping Garcia keep an eye on him, as he put it to me.”
“That wasn't a question,” she said.
“Am I right?”
“Aren't you always?”
“Sometimes. But always slow to get there.”
“Then you know they were on to him,” she said. “This little incident will be another nail in his coffin.”
“How did you get mixed up in that?”
“A favor, really. The detectives I was interviewing had noticed his name come up every time a bad guy got away with something, or when evidence went missing. They had nothing hard and fast but figured if I spent time with him, flattering him, maybe he'd give me a different story than he was telling his bosses. Sometimes people like to brag when they talk to reporters.” She shrugged. “Turned out he's not a bragger, but he gave me a couple of pieces of information he shouldn't have known.”
“About?”
“Drug shipments. Les Pieds-Noirs. The deal was that I help the cops and they'd give me the first, and inside, scoop when Durand and his drug buddies went down.” She looked up and grinned. “And they said they'd teach me to shoot.”
“Seems they kept that promise.” Hugo squeezed her hand again.
“They looked at you, too, for a couple of minutes, did you know that?”
