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“Claude?” Yves called out to his partner when he heard the approaching sirens.
When Claude didn’t answer him, Yves cautiously made his way along the wall at the edge of the garden. The wall was only three feet high, and he soon discovered that he wasn’t being cautious enough as a burst of gunfire chipped stone from the top of the wall by his head.
Ducking quickly, he scrambled for the dubious safety of a car, which he crawled around to the far side, where he discovered Claude. His partner was on the ground, bleeding, and it didn’t take a medical degree for Yves to see that he wouldn’t be able to escape without help.
As best he could, Yves ignored the increasing volume of the sirens and considered the situation. He didn’t know if Henri and Julian had accomplished their mission, he didn’t even know if they were still alive, and he had no way of contacting them to find out, so he could only assume they had failed. He regretted the decision to leave behind anything that could be used to identify them now, including their mobile phones.
With backup for the protection detail on its way, there was no time for him to get into the house and finish the job, not if he wanted to get away as well. Attempting to finish the job would almost certainly see him either caught or killed, neither of which possibility appealed to him, especially since if he were caught Noir was likely to have him killed to keep him quiet.
When the sound of the sirens doubled in volume, Yves looked around in concern and saw a police car rounding the corner a hundred and fifty yards away. That made up his mind for him.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised to his friend as he raised his weapon.
He could see in his eyes that Claude understood the decision he had made, and what was about to happen, and accepted it. That understanding didn’t make him feel any better about what he knew he had to do. With a shaking hand he aimed his gun at Claude’s head and squeezed the trigger, firing a three-round burst to be sure the job was done. He stared down on his friend for a second, saying a silent goodbye, and then he straightened.
Two long bursts emptied his gun and dealt with the approaching police car. The first burst shattered the windscreen and killed the driver, making the car veer violently and causing his second burst to miss the officer in the passenger seat. He forgot about the officer he had failed to kill as he reloaded and turned his attention to the car following on the heels of the first.
He missed the driver as the car swerved, so he fired again, holding his finger on the trigger for longer as he aimed at the radiator to stop the car dead. When his weapon clicked on an empty chamber again, he reached for another magazine. He had used his last one, however, and he dropped the submachine gun so it swung from its strap. In its place he took out his pistol.
A burst of gunfire from somewhere in the house shattered the window of the car next to him, sending a fresh wave of adrenaline through him. It gave him the impetus to pick up his pace until he was running flat out down the road.
He didn’t stop until he reached the car he had arrived in. He yanked the driver’s door open, threw himself behind the wheel, and scrambled to start the engine, glad that the keys had been left in the ignition.
Once in gear he shoved his foot down on the accelerator and spun the wheel sharply. The car shot away from the kerb, and he swung it in a tight U-turn to head up the road away from the house he and his men had attacked.
He took the first turn he came to, and it was only by the narrowest of margins that he avoided driving headfirst into an oncoming police car. He scraped past it and took the next turn with no idea if he was going in the right direction to get back to the hotel he and his friends had been using.
It didn’t matter just then if he was going the right way. He was more concerned with putting as much distance between him and the safehouse as he could, and in escaping the police, whose sirens seemed uncomfortably close as he took turn after turn to try and lose them. It sounded as though they were always just around the last corner, and that kept him going.
After yet another random turn, Yves saw a young woman getting out of a car. He slammed on the brakes, bringing his car to a skidding halt a short distance from her, and threw open the door at his side.
The woman was frozen to the spot, paralysed by nearly being run down, but at the sight of the gun in the hand of the man rushing towards her she screamed.
“Tais-toi!” Yves struck the woman with his gun, slashing her cheek open with the muzzle. Her scream ended abruptly, and she stared at him in silent shock. “Monte dans la voiture,” he ordered, waving his gun in her face.
When she continued to stare at him, now in incomprehension, Yves pressed the muzzle of his gun against her bloody cheek and said slowly and deliberately in English, “Get in the car or I’ll kill you.” He hoped she understood him that time because he couldn’t speak Spanish and she clearly hadn’t understood his French.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” the young woman pleaded in halting English.
“Then get in the bloody car!” Yves pressed the gun more firmly against her cheek to get the message across and she quickly unlocked the car door. “Get in and move over to the other side,” he said when she had the door open. He then slid in beside her.
He held his breath when a police car, its siren silent but its lights flashing, raced past the end of the road. When the car didn’t reappear, he slowly let out his breath and snatched the keys from his hostage’s grasp so he could start the engine.
Yves kept to the speed limit as he pulled away from the kerb and started down the road, but after a few minutes of driving aimlessly at what felt like a crawl he found himself becoming impatient. He wanted to increase his speed, but he knew that if he began racing through the streets again, he would end up with the police after him once more. He also realised that without knowing where he was going, it didn’t matter how fast he drove. Reluctantly, he forced himself to slow down every time he found his speed creeping up.
He considered asking his hostage, who stared fearfully at the gun in his lap the whole time, if she knew where the hotel was but he dismissed the idea the moment it entered his mind. Even if he could make her understand what he wanted, there was every chance she either would not know where the hotel was, wouldn’t be able to make him understand how to get there, or, more likely, would direct him to the nearest police station instead.
Since he couldn’t ask for directions, all he could do was keep driving and hope he found himself somewhere he recognised.
**
ALMOST TWO HOURS AFTER leaving the safehouse, Yves finally found the hotel where he and his friends had been staying. It felt like he had gone up and down every street in the city during his search, though he was sure that wasn’t true.
Parking the car down the street from the hotel, he took the keys from the ignition and turned to look at his hostage. He wasn’t sure how to get her from the car to his hotel room without anyone seeing his gun, but he realised he had to think of something. He couldn’t let her go, and he couldn’t shoot her right there in the street. Doing either was certain to have the police there in no time.
Finally, he got out of the car and hurried round to the passenger side before his hostage could do anything. He looked around quickly and then took his gun from his pocket to remind the woman that he had it, and that she should do what he wanted.
“Don’t do anything unless I tell you,” he said in slow English.
He shoved the gun back into his pocket before moving off, and with one hand on the weapon in case his hostage tried anything, he took her by the arm and almost dragged her up the road to the hotel.