Salon de Provence, France
It was like something Nostradamus himself might have envisioned in one of his hallucinogenic trances. In an instant, just as Avery and the others emerged from the museum, intent on traveling to Paris in order to see what secrets lay beneath the shiny brass skin of the Brazen Head, the peaceful afternoon quiet was torn asunder, transformed into a fiery holocaust.
As with the flashbang in Zurich, the suddenness of it left Avery stunned, unable to process what was happening, but this blast was an order of magnitude greater, and even though they were at least a hundred yards from the detonation, the overpressure wave hit with the force of a hurricane, hurling the three of them backward, into the exterior wall of the museum. And, as in Zurich, the explosion was just the beginning.
Kasey and Greg recovered much quicker than Avery, drawing their pistols to meet the follow-on attack they knew was coming, but they weren’t fast enough. Even before the last echoes of the explosion faded, there were several more eruptions, quieter than the initial detonation, but just as deadly.
Something warm and wet sprayed across Avery’s face and the wall behind her. She looked up and saw Kasey staggering backward, an obscene red hole in her back, just below her right shoulder blade.
The horror of it hit Avery like another concussion wave. She opened her mouth to scream, to demand a do-over from God or the universe, but if any sound came out, she could not hear it over the noise of more reports, much closer this time. Greg stood above her, as solid as the bronze statue across the square, firing his pistol at an attacker she could not see, but then in that instant, Kasey crashed into her and bore her down to the sidewalk.
She could feel Kasey’s blood soaking through her own clothes.
No! Kasey!
“Avery!” Greg was kneeling beside her now, shouting down without looking. His right hand still gripped the pistol, arm outstretched, while his left held the backpack. He thrust it in her direction. “Take it! Run!”
The backpack was also streaked with blood, as was Greg’s left arm from the biceps down.
“You said to stay with you.” Her voice came out as a squeak. It was a pathetic thing to say, a childish denial, but her mind refused to engage with the grim reality of what was happening.
“You have to go, Avery!” He punctuated the shout by squeezing off two more shots, then dropped the backpack in order to reload his semi-auto. “When I start shooting, you go! And don’t stop.”
Avery hugged the backpack to her and squirmed out from under Kasey’s unmoving form, and when Greg started firing, she scrambled up and took off running. She didn’t know where to go, only that she needed to get away from the shooting.
Just ahead and to her left, a column of black smoke was spiraling into the heavens, rising from the twisted remains of a sedan. Her primal survival instincts—what Stone might have called her reptile brain—told her to run away from the burning wreck, but another more rational voice told her the bombed-out car was the one place where the bad guys definitely wouldn’t be, so she ran toward it.
As she got closer, she realized that car now sat at the center of a blast crater, surrounded by a scattering of debris—pieces of the car, chunks of masonry and pavement. The heat radiating from the wreck rebuffed her, but she could see, just beyond it, a stream of people emerging from the shattered façade of a clothing shop. Some were limping, others clutched bloody wounds, and all of them were streaked with dust, but their fear was palpable even from a distance. They could hear the shooting across the square and knew what it meant; terror had found them.
Avery knew that what was happening had nothing to do with politics or Islam or any other cause, but that knowledge was of little comfort. She was just like them, a bloody victim of the attack. She hastened past the burning car, losing herself in the human flood. She had no clue what to do next, where to go.
That was something else she shared with the men and women around her.
LeMans took aim at the running figure of Avery Halsey. His finger was still curled around the trigger, but before he could pull it, another shot from one of the wounded American agents forced him to duck behind the corner of the building he was using as cover. He edged out again, squeezed off a pair of shots in the general direction of the other shooter, and then looked for Avery again.
She was now on the far side of the plaza, still within range of his pistol—barely—but too close to a group of panicked survivors fleeing the area. He could still shoot her but discreetly retrieving the backpack with the Brazen Head from her body would be next to impossible.
He muttered a curse, holstered his weapon and turned away, sprinting down the Rue de l’Horloge, away from the blast site.
Things hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but they could certainly have gone worse. The call from Furst, ordering him into action, had come before the arrival of the would-be terrorists from North Africa, but their presence would merely have been icing on the cake. Even without their bodies at the scene, everyone would jump to the conclusion that it was an act of terrorism.
And while he hadn’t been able to secure the Brazen Head as hoped, he had managed to take the two of the American agents out of play. If his information was correct, the one that remained—Avery Halsey—wasn’t an agent at all, but a civilian consultant.
He ran up the street and rounded the corner onto the Rue Beauvezet. His intent was to circle around and cut off Avery’s escape, but as soon as he made the turn, he was confronted by a flood of people heading directly toward him in a frantic mass. He considered fighting through them but realized that doing so would only attract unwanted attention his way. As far as he knew, Avery had not seen his face, but if she was there among the frightened horde, she would definitely take note of someone fighting against the flow.
He took a step back instead, scanning the crowd, searching for her, but she wasn’t there. He swore again under his breath but did not panic. There were other avenues leading away from the plaza, and if she managed to slip away here, she was alone, unarmed, and almost certainly terrified.
He took a deep breath, willing himself into a calmer state. Where would she go? Who would she turn to for help?
The police? It was a possibility, but unlikely. Even if she wasn’t a trained operative, she would surely know that involving the authorities of a foreign nation would expose her clandestine operation. No, she would run for a while, but eventually, she would by drawn back to the only familiar thing in her world—her fallen comrades.
He was pretty sure he had wounded both of them, and possibly killed the Asian woman, but the male operative had still been returning fire, covering Avery’s escape. She would almost certainly try to reunite with him.
LeMans doubled back again, heading down the Rue de l’Horloge toward the intersection with Rue Nostradamus, this time moving at a brisk walk. First responders were already arriving. Policemen in full tactical kit were setting up barricades to block access to the site. Firemen and paramedics hanging back waiting for the all clear. He considered trying to bluff his way into the secure area with his Swiss military credentials but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. No, he would simply observe, for now, follow the ambulance to the hospital, and then wait for Avery to come to him.
Sooner or later, he knew, she would.