by Joseph Nagle
Michael was impressed, but he didn’t show it. “Time to go!”
Rue de la Paix was busy. The two men had to dart carefully and inconspicuously between tourists and Parisians. Michael pointed at York—the signal was clear, and York moved to the other side of the street.
Justine weaved anxiously between the pedestrians, clearly quickening her strides the further she separated herself from the hotel.
News vans and trucks were parked and double-parked along the curbside. Antennae booms filled the sky as reporters from numerous countries staked out their positions and awaited their scoop.
Putting her head down and her eyes cast away, nary an eyelash batted toward Justine as she walked past them, to her quiet satisfaction.
Within a block, the street ended (however, Parisians would say this is where the street began) and opened up into the eighteenth-century tribute to the spectacular armies of the solipsistic Louis XIV: Place Vendôme.
In a dominating fashion, la Colonne Vendôme—originally erected as a tribute to an even more solipsistic Napoleon—pierced the slightly octagon-shaped square of Place Vendôme. Jutting two hundred and eighty meters skyward, the Corinthian bronze column of spiraling bas-reliefs had at its center a stone core and was capped with a likeness of Napoleon, showing the emperor in Roman dress. The square was designed to appear palatial and was surrounded by ribbed, ornate pilasters.
As York entered its vast confines, he felt small and overwhelmed, almost unworthy as its royal features rained down on him. Michael entered separate from York; they both followed the senator’s assistant.
Vendôme was lined with the storefronts of the best of the fashionable and anchored by hotels of only five-star caliber.
The two men watched like eagles with their eyes latched onto their prey. Justine picked up her pace and moved toward a small shop on the Place’s interior.
Michael motioned for York to slow down, to be patient.
He did.
He was.
At 28 Place Vendôme, the storefront window was illuminated by impressive displays of multi-colored fabrics from around the world. The colors of the shirts and haberdashery were loud in reflection with the solemn square. A well-dressed man stood in front of the window and admired the world-famous cuts by Charvet—a cornerstone of Paris since 1838, and the first ever shirt shop in the world.
Charney raised his right hand to his mouth and massaged his lips with the butt of his cigarette as he admired the expensive clothing. He wore only custom-fit shirts cut by Charvet. He slowly inhaled and admired the new collection while watching the reflection of the round-figured woman who approached from behind.
He almost turned to greet her, but stopped in his tracks. It happened quickly, and he almost didn’t see it—almost.
Behind the woman, he caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered man as he melted in behind the square’s column. It took his brain a moment, but when the moment passed, what he saw registered—it was York.
Instead of turning around, he continued to stare into the window. He doubted they recognized him. He was wearing one of his custom-fit suits, and his hair was slicked back.
Justine walked toward the window, toward the man who stood at its front. He was there, just as he said he would be. She slowed her stride as she felt her breathing go shallow. Her chest expanded and contracted with a bit more fervor, in pace with her heart; she realized that she was scared.
Across the Place, Michael watched as Justine approached the man at the window. He lowered his gaze and squinted. The backside of the expensive suit fit in with the environment, and the man stood erect and firm, in the manner that a man with means should.
He watched as the man swallowed another pull of his cigarette. He watched as the man held the butt to his face and inspected what remained. Taking one more drag, the man slowly let his hand fall in apposition to his side. He dropped the cigarette. It landed near another.
He didn’t flick the finished cigarette away.
He didn’t fling it away.
He just let it drop.
He didn’t smother it with his toe.
It was then that Michael knew. The man just simply slowly opened the two fingers that had held the cigarette butt. It was an instinctive movement—a tell. It was a simple mistake by a professional that only another professional could see.
It was the same manner in which the man in Portugal—the man who had attacked him—had allowed his finished cigarettes to pile up at his side at the sidewalk café in front of the safe house.
Michael snapped his head toward his underling, but they were too far apart to communicate verbally. He doubted that York knew. Instead, Michael held up his hand toward York, telling him to wait.
York nodded that he understood.
Justine let out a breath and stepped next to Charney.
Charney did what any man would do in front of her: he gazed over the curves of her femininity, letting his eyes fall upon her torso first before meeting her face. Like every woman, she was used to it. He then coolly uttered his question: “Do you have my money?”
“Let me see it first,” she responded.
He smiled and then reached into his inside breast pocket, pulling out the vellum.
“Open it please,” she demanded, surprised that her confidence was finding its way back.
Charney complied and unrolled the vellum, holding it for her to see.
Michael and York watched; both realized that this was the exchange.
Justine studied it for a moment; she let out a slight, audible gasp as she read it and then reached for it. Charney snatched it away.
“First, the rest of my money, woman.”
“Of course,” she replied and then reached for her phone. The call was quick, and she offered a simple command to the recipient of the call: “Do it.”
A moment went by, and then she replied to whoever was on the other end of the line. “Good,” she said and hung up.
Charney was staring at the screen of his smart phone; a few moments dragged by as the two of them waited. Finally, a smile elongated his thin lips. The money had been transferred.
He wore the face of a satisfied man. He said, “And now for my other requirement.”
Justine inhaled sharply and blurted a bit impetuously, “Give me the vellum first!” She felt instantly foolish. Her outburst caused the capillaries in her face to suddenly fill; a hue of crimson crept into her opaque cheeks and across the bridge of her nose as her skin went warm.
Charney studied her for moment, wanting her to feel for a bit longer the weight of her amateurish demand. He could tell that she wanted to sink into herself, but he was impressed that she stood firm. He was surprised that her control aroused him slightly. This woman was far from his type.
By the way she stared at it, he could see that the vellum was valuable to her. He wondered what was so valuable about it, but shook the thought. He didn’t care about the vellum. She had what he truly wanted. She had the key to his masterpiece.
He handed her the vellum and in a collected manner, he repeated, “My other requirement. I won’t ask again.”
Justine sensed that he was serious and opened the flap of the satchel that was slung across her body. Gently she set the vellum inside and with the same motion pulled out a flash drive.
Handing it to the man, she noticed that he palmed the drive in the same manner that she had the vellum.
Turning, she readied to leave, but before she could, Charney snatched her by the arm.
Michael saw this; York too.
“What the hell are you doing?” she snapped at Charney.
But her question didn’t matter. She was in front of a true professional. There would be no conversation, no explanation.
Justine felt the pressure in her midsection and didn’t quite understand what had just happened.
Charney pulled her closer; she grunted.
Michael shouted at York to move and then sprinted forward. He pulled out the Kel-tec pistol and t
ook aim. He screamed out at the Frenchman that he was going to fire, but his shouts were inaudible or indistinguishable at the distance between them.
It didn’t matter.
Charney had been prepared; his thoughts were calculating two and three steps ahead. He spun Justine around so that her back was facing Michael—she was his shield.
York sprinted toward them, too. His weapon was drawn.
Michael took aim, but he didn’t have a clear shot. Neither did York.
Charney looked into Justine’s eyes and smiled a smile of pure evil.
He looked up at Michael and York; they were too far away to be effective. Place Vendôme was just too big; it was the reason he had chosen it.
Slowly he pulled the knife from Justine’s stomach and snatched from her the bag that held the vellum; she staggered backward two steps. Her hands instinctively covered the wound; they felt wet. She held them to her face; they were covered with her blood. She couldn’t speak; she couldn’t cry out. The terror in her as death approached overtook all ability to do anything.
Charney lashed out an angry kick into her chest, sending Justine backward and awkwardly to the ground. He disappeared into Charvet.
Michael and York were soon side by side; Michael shouted, “Follow him! Get the vellum!”
York ran into Charvet, and Michael fell to his knees, next to Justine. Her hat had fallen from her head, and her red hair was completely exposed, spilling out and spread about like a fan on the ground. Her breathing was coming in pants, and her eyes were already dilated. She looked at Michael as he raised her upper body with care from the centuries-old stone.
She stared at Michael, but her eyes peered through him; her life was escaping. She tried to speak, but the words were weak. Michael pulled her closer.
“Y-y-your w-wife…”
Michael felt as if the knife now pierced him; his grip on her tightened, and he blurted, “My wife! You know where she is! Tell me, tell me now!”
Justine’s eyes rolled deep, exposing nothing but white. She vacillated between the deprivation of death and what little life she had left.
“Tell me!” Michael shouted as he shook her. “Tell me now! Where is she?”
Justine spoke her last word: “Here.”
And then she was dead.
Michael felt numb.
A pool of dark red blood crept from her midsection, running down both sides of her frame. A crowd was beginning to form; Michael hardly took notice.
Sonia was his only thought. His attention to the details surrounding him had wavered enough that it took a few moments to see the crowd, to hear their gasps and shouts. The focus of his thoughts nearly drowned out the sounds of the fast-approaching sirens and certainly masked the weight of the cell phone that Justine had shoved into his hands before dying.
Michael slowly rotated his head toward the cell phone and looked at its screen. He physically trembled at what he saw and nearly dropped the phone.
A call was connected, and a name was on the screen. Michael put the phone to his ear and listened. He heard a man’s breathing on the other end.
Flatly and clearly, Michael said, “I am coming for you. Do you hear me?! I am coming for you—you son of a bitch!”
But the line was already dead.
At that moment, there was a shout in his ear and a tug at his arm. It was York. “Doc! Doc, get up! Come on, we have to go!”
Michael felt the young man pull him to his feet. Still in a slight stupor, he awkwardly stumbled away. The intense throbbing in his thigh, mixed with the knowledge that his abducted wife was nearby and in Paris, threw him temporarily off balance.
The two men ran roughly into the crowd, not concerned with their wellbeing. A hand reached out to grab at Michael—it belonged to a solidly built man, a well-intentioned Samaritan, trying to stop Michael from running away. Michael’s reaction was a blend of his training and the anger that now swept through him. He didn’t care. He clasped the arm of the man in a devastating hold, feeling the bones of the man’s forearm crack. The man cried out with a piercing and shrill scream, and York intervened.
“Let him go, doc! Let him go!”
York pulled the man from Michael’s grip, and Michael sprinted away.
York raced to catch his mentor and struggled to keep pace. Michael was fast, and York didn’t understand how a man as injured as he was could move so swiftly.
Back from the way they came, the men raced. Michael was heading straight for the Westminster hotel and cared not who was in his way. He barreled over the shouting doorman; two Secret Service men reacted to the commotion and took pursuit.
Their mistake was not seeing York following. From behind the two dark-suited men, York swung out, putting the butt of his weapon in the soft spot at the base of one of the men’s skull. Instantly he fell. The second spun around to react, his hand reaching for his sidearm. But York was a Green Beret and better trained. He was faster and more lethal. His elbow landed viciously into the second Secret Service officer’s temple. He, too, fell. York grabbed both of their side arms and, in one efficient move, dislocated the barrels of the weapons from their grips.
The throngs of hotel guests and other visitors dispersed away from the altercation. Some shouted, while a few women screamed.
York ignored them and sped away, throwing the separated pieces of the weapons into different trashcans. He caught up to Michael, but before he could ask him just what in the hell was going on, Michael looked at him with a ferocity that could not be mistaken and commanded, “Get to 67 Rue de Chabrol #4—it’s in the 10th arrondissement. Tell the woman there you are with me. Stay there.”
“And then what?” shouted York.
“Kid, get the fuck out of here now! I am taking a detour, and we need to separate, now go!”
Michael spun around and sprinted away. His intensity and clarity had returned. He was a man focused. His mission was singular. Sonia was here; she was in Paris and his only care. There was a buzz ahead, and he knew this would be the place.
“Shit!” spat out York as he burst down the hall toward an emergency exit and, with one look back, he saw nothing. Michael was already gone.
York vanished through the door; he was on his own.
Michael ran into the conference room. He didn’t hesitate nor did he slow down. His training had long ago proved that speed was one’s best way in an ambush. He didn’t care that the event being held there was being televised live; he didn’t care that both French and American security forces guarded the room’s most important occupant.
He sensed a swarm of them collapsing in on him, and from the corner of his eye, he saw a pistol taking aim. The French security team member was good, but not good enough. He had been the first to take aim, but Michael’s shot was expert and without hesitation. With the depression of the trigger, Michael’s aim put a bullet into the body of the man’s pistol, sending it flying from the man’s hand. His only injury was a broken trigger finger from the force of the shot.
Immediately the room was enveloped in screams as most of the occupants dove for the floor to take cover. Only the security forces and a small female reporter remained standing.
So did Senator Matthew Faust.
Michael reached the woman and grabbed her by the throat. Her mouth was agape as she tried to inhale. Spinning her around, he whispered into her ear, “Sorry for this,” and then dragged the woman toward the senator, using her as a shield.
The moments of chaos and the woman’s body served as cover, giving Michael just the right amount of time to close the distance between himself and Faust.
There was no conversation offered. In one swift, uninterrupted motion, Michael let the woman go; as she fell, he reached out and grabbed a backpedaling Faust by his hair and disappeared through the door behind the senator, dragging the shocked man by his scalp. The senator was clawing at Michael’s arm, but Michael ignored it.
Through a service door to the conference hall’s kitchen, Michael roughly pulled the protestin
g senator. Michael kicked the door shut. Scanning about, he saw a number of the staff cowering in fear. Near the door, a waiter stood. Michael pointed his pistol at the man and asked, “Do you understand English?”
The waiter nodded.
“Grab the fire extinguisher from the wall and shove it into the door’s handle.”
The waiter grabbed the extinguisher but dropped it.
“Pick it up!” shouted Michael. “Shove it in the fucking door handle!” Michael cocked the hammer of his firearm. “Do it now!”
The waiter did.
“Now get out of here!” Michael turned and faced the rest of the kitchen’s staff with his weapon aimed. “All of you: get the hell out of here now!”
The commotion was short-lived as everyone quickly scampered from the room. Michael yanked the senator to his feet; Faust tried to protest. Michael wasn’t willing to listen. He snapped the butt end of his pistol into Faust’s nose, and then shoved him backward and away from the door.
Michael could hear the Secret Service banging the door, trying to get in; it wouldn’t take long. The fire extinguisher was not meant to stop them—it had another purpose.
Michael spun around and took aim. The bullet easily found its mark. The extinguisher exploded, sending the door from its hinges and throwing the Secret Service officers back into the conference room.
The explosion would divert them long enough to allow Michael the time he would need. They would hesitate. But it wouldn’t keep them permanently away. They would regroup.
Michael kicked the senator in the back and shouted, “Move!”
Faust protested, “Listen to me! I am a US senator! Whatever you want, I can help you get it. Just don’t hurt me!”
The senator sounded frantic, scared even.
Michael wasn’t listening.
Grabbing the senator by the back of his hair once more, Michael shoved the pistol under his chin and roughly pushed him forward.
“Don’t speak; just move.”
The senator did.
Michael pushed the senator to the stairwell in the back corner of the kitchen. The two men climbed the flights until they were at the stairwell’s end and in front of the door leading onto the fourth and uppermost floor of the hotel.
