The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (the dot read aloud .txt) 📗

a cobblestone path—the start of a network of residential walkways leading deeper into the block of buildings. Most blocks south of the river had similar networks, and none were alike. Centuries of building and rebuilding had created mazes of paths. Some had street outlets. Not all.

The police showed no inclination to obey his previous command. They poured from their vehicles, taking cover behind the hoods and doors.

“Back!” he yelled and put one round each into the front tire of the closest two.

The men ducked. The Beretta’s sharp reports earned him a startled cry from Clara.

She pounded his arm with a fist. “Let me go!” Either she had turned against him, as she should have long before, or she was playing along. He couldn’t tell.

One policeman shouted into a radio, and a motorcycle sped in from behind a building, halting next to him—the on-scene commander by the look of things. He pointed east. The motorcycle shot away. The commander was positioning his men, raising the walls of Ben’s cage. Good man.

A swift kick busted the park’s back gate open. High limestone buildings on either side caused a funnel effect, masking Ben and Clara in shadow as he dragged her through.

The cops maneuvered to keep him in sight but stayed behind their vehicles.

“I said leave us alone!” He aimed the muzzle at Clara’s head. “I’ll kill her, I swear!”

One brave man made a rush for the front fence, and Ben let out a frustrated growl. He bounced two shots off an iron post, sending up sparks. The man dove for cover behind a bush.

“That’s right. Stay back!”

Ben had fired four shots with Duval’s gun, two in the tires and two to put hero-cop into the bush. He had three left—he hoped. He didn’t know Duval’s habits. Maybe he liked to carry a round chambered. Maybe not. Maybe he’d left the office that morning without a full clip. Ben had one more shot for sure. He’d need at least two.

The path curved, hiding them from the cops’ sightline. Ben relaxed his hold. “Are you with me?”

“Yes,” she said, pushing his arm away. But the anger in her eyes said otherwise. She punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t you ever use me as a human shield again.”

He made no promises. “Argue later.”

Without gunfire to pin them down, the cops would be on them in moments. The path ended at a T-intersection, with cobblestones leading right and downward steps leading left. “Steps,” Ben said, pointing.

Clara scooped up her dog. “Why?”

“The motorcycle went east.”

As if that were a reasonable answer, she nodded and followed. They jogged down into a low courtyard, then took a right and jogged up again. Another bend brought them within sight of an arched exit. Ben saw no cars in the two-lane street beyond. He never expected to.

If the motorcycle cop had followed standard procedure, he’d cleared the street of traffic and barricaded himself behind his bike. But to which side of the arch was he waiting? Ben couldn’t afford to sneak up and look. He had only seconds, if that, before more cops arrived.

He increased his speed, pushing farther ahead of Clara and staring at a narrow patch of empty street visible through the arch. “Come on, buddy. Give me a sign.”

The motorcycle cop did not oblige. No matter. A man in an apron stared out from a café window across the street, looking to Ben’s left—just the signal he needed.

He twisted his torso as he ran through the arch, hitting the street with his weapon tracking, seeking the bike and its owner. In an instant, he locked on and pumped one round into the engine. The next two went skimming across the vinyl seat into the cop’s upper right chest.

The Beretta’s slide locked back. Ben let the weapon drop and kept running.

“You shot him!” Clara yelled, fighting to keep up. “That makes two today!”

“This one’ll be fine. He had a vest.”

“And the gun? You don’t want to keep it?”

“No.”

A chopper passed overhead. Ben took the dog, and with Clara in tow, he ran two blocks farther east and cut through a hall of shops, slowing and looking left and right as he ran out into the light again at a well-traveled boulevard. “All right, kids. Where are you?”

Clara came puffing up behind him. “What kids?”

“Here comes one now.”

Scooters took over Paris in 2019—not Vespas, but in-line skateboards with a post and handlebars—strewn about the city by four or five companies, including Uber. Rent a scooter with an app, ride it across the city, and leave it for the next person. Unhindered by traffic, rules, or any sense of civilized behavior, they’ve become the fastest way around Paris.

But you need a smartphone.

Ben had no smartphone. He did have a gun and a wad of cash, though.

Four scooters headed Ben’s way, two in the bike lane and two on the sidewalk. He chose the Bounce brand. They had fatter tires and bigger weight limits.

The young man on the Bounce hit his brakes hard, skidding to a stop with his back wheel off the ground and his face six inches from Ben’s Glock and a pair of fifty-euro bills.

“A hundred euros for your ride.”

The kid nodded, took the bills, and ran.

Ben made room between his body and the handlebars and nodded at Clara. “Hop on. Once his phone breaks the Bluetooth connection, we’ll only have a minute or two of run time.”

The chopper had drifted into a slow outward spiral. If the crew ever had a visual on Ben and Clara, they seemed to have lost it. Maybe they wouldn’t notice a couple joy-riding on a scooter—at least until someone reported the hijacking.

Ben drove north and east until the scooter died. Its speed took them outside the net of police, but that net would grow fast. He parked on the sidewalk and pulled Clara under an awning. “French cops don’t react well to being shot at. I mean”—he bobbled his head—“no cops like it, but these guys have a rep. They’ll bring in