Prologue

Lyon, France, the past

There she is, a metal monster with a tricked-out engine, lying motionless in a chop shop outside the city. She’d been souped up with heavy side panels and a supercharged engine. Perfect for trafficking. It’s stinking hot out, but they really should have closed the door of the garage.

Big mistake.

Sweating’s better than bleeding.

I check my watch. I don’t have much time before the others show up, lights flashing, sirens blaring, and all that crap. I lift the latch and push the gate open. It hardly squeaks. I stay off the gravel driveway and walk through the overgrown yard to avoid being spotted. The makeshift shop looks like it was once a house. Bodies of abandoned cars are rotting away all around it. Waste oil and battery acid are seeping from their guts, making holes in the weeds. The men are there. They’re busy taking apart the front of the car. The crushed radiator and bumper have already been ripped off.

It’s the watchdog that spots me—a rottweiler mutt with a big muscular chest. His black and wild coat’s full of scars, some of them still fresh, no doubt from being forced to fight in basements of the neighboring projects.

Chained to the rusty body of a Renault 11, he leaps up on all fours, baring a steel-jaw trap and yellow fangs.

He gives a muffled growl. From deep inside.

Slowly, I walk closer, bringing my finger to my lips.

“Shush!” I whisper. How pathetic. The dog turns his huge snout toward his masters. When they don’t react, the animal starts barking. The men raise their heads. I freeze. They look at each other and come out of the garage, glancing around. No surprise, considering what they’re working on. Eddie, the giant, wipes his huge grease-covered mitts on a rag. Steve, the weakling, approaches the animal, who’s barking louder now and foaming at the mouth. He leaps toward me with crazed eyes. The dog’s chain looks ready to break. The skeleton of the car rises each time the animal jumps.

“Who’s the black asshole?” Steve asks.

“Can’t you see he’s a pig? Fuck!” Eddie shouts.

“I know he’s a cop. Why’s he alone?”

The animal has gone quiet. With a half-smile, Steve starts unfastening the chain that holds him back.

“Go on, Panzer. It’s lunch time.”

I’m not scared. I know what I have to do. I open my jacket and slip my hand on my weapon. The freed watchdog rushes toward me. The two brothers howl with laughter, cheering the attack. I draw my gun, thinking I’ll never be able to shoot a target moving that fast. But somehow the first bullet hits the rottweiler in the chest, and the second goes right through the head. Never, not even when I worked the anti-gang unit, had I ever pulled off a shot like that. I’d think it’s the hand of God, but I don’t believe in God anymore. The beast falls at my feet, his eyes glassy and his tongue hanging out.

“Fuck! Panzer!” Steve shrieks.

“See, I told you! He’s a pig!” Eddie yells.

Steve starts backing up, his hands open, like he’s leading a prayer.

“Officer, we have nothing to do with this. We just fix up old cars…”

Stunned, I head toward them, my gun dangling from my hand. Eddie, the hothead, decides to take control of the situation. He grabs an enormous monkey wrench from a toolbox and dashes at me, brandishing it above his head. I shoot him in the knee. It must hurt worse than I imagine. He falls to the ground, howling like he’s possessed. Steve, meanwhile, is blubbering in the back of the garage. He’d never been the braver of the two brothers. I crouch in front of the bumper. It’s dented, like the grille. By the license plate, I see a patch of cream-colored linen. I close my eyes and straighten up. I’m feeling a hundred years old and the downers have no effect.

There’s blood on the hood.

I head toward Eddie, who’s still yowling and rocking himself in a puddle of oil. I pick up the monkey wrench and swing it. I crack his skull. Then I whack him over and over until I lose count. I only stop because of the excruciating pain in my arm. It feels like it’s about to come out of the socket. Panting and nauseated, I look at my reflection in the driver’s-side mirror of the car they’d been working on. I’m covered in Eddie’s blood and bits of his brain. Steve’s throwing up in the back of the garage. He lifts his tearful eyes to me as I walk toward him. Remnants of his last meal are dripping from the corner of his mouth. I drop the monkey wrench.

“It wasn’t me. It was Eddie,” he says.

But I know which of the two was the driver. I make a fist and crack my knuckles.