To Paris with Love: A Family Business Novel (The Family Business)

by Weber, Carl

  “Paris? What the fuck are you doing out here, yo?” I asked, ditching my fake English accent again as she stepped over the man I’d just killed.

  She was a completely different animal than I thought. As I guess I was to her now too.

  “Apparently saving your fucking ass,” she replied, as hard rock as she’d been toward me until today. She jumped up to her feet with the Ruger still in hand.

  “You sure about that?” I said, spinning the newly acquired Sig Sauer around on my hand like somebody from out the Wild West.

  I aimed the 9 mil at her.

  Looked like the final score was gonna be tied.

  Paris

  24

  “Oh! Is this your way of thanking me?” I asked angrily as I turned my Ruger on him as well, aiming straight center mass on his chiseled frame. Beaten down, his dress shirt stained with dirt and familiar streaks of pink and red, and he still looked hot. But I was prepared to gladly add his body count to the mess. “Now . . . whatcha wanna do?” I asked, adrenaline flowing.

  Niles didn’t flinch though. Seeing what I was packing, he cautiously took a few steps back while keeping his handgun trained on me. Not out of fear, but from being cagey as fuck. He didn’t have to say it, but I got it; could see the look in his eyes. He knew the range of the Ruger being pointing at him. And that its accuracy dropped off dramatically the greater the distance from its target. His? Not so much. Niles sidestepped the heap made by my two victims. Not missing a beat he reached down with a gloved hand, making sure they were both dead.

  “Who sent you?” he asked coolly.

  “What the fuck! No one sent me. And what the fuck did you do to make these fools come at you? Stole their money?” I asked, having a hard time controlling my frustration.

  “Nice. Good one. Had me fooled for the longest. Good looks and attitude. My weakness, no doubt.” He chuckled, not making a bit of sense. “Now . . . I’ma give you one more chance. Who sent you? You freelancing?”

  I shot at his feet, making him jump. “There’s your ‘freelancing’ right there,” I replied. Yeah. I could still hit him. Got a gold fuckin’ star in marksmanship back at school.

  Without wasting a word, Niles shot back. The bullet grazed my jacket without hurting me. But almost made me pee on myself. “You stupid ass! You coulda killed me!” I yelled as I thrust my gun toward him in anger.

  “But I didn’t. Look . . . we only got about fifteen minutes tops before their friends find us. And you do not want to be around here when the numbers are on their side,” Niles said, his eyes glancing down at the bodies around us. “So you gotta tell me. Who are you working for?”

  “Myself, bitch. And you need to stop pointing that gun at me. Seriously. Unless you plan on killing me like Ramon and Antonio. Yeah. I saw the news and came downstairs to have a ‘talk’ with ya. I only followed you when you skated out of your meeting back at the hotel.”

  “If we’re done with the standoff and your anger over that yacht mess, we need to go. Now. We can talk about this later. Somewhere else.”

  “Like how you talked to Ramon and Antonio on the yacht? Drug overdoses, my ass,” I argued. “I also read about that Pakistani businessman. The one I saw you talking to at the hotel.”

  “Stop right there before I suddenly have a situation on my hands. A situation you really don’t want, ma,” Niles said as he motioned at his near miss. “Now I’m about to walk out of here. You’re welcome to come with me or stay. But if you stay, you better scrounge up something more than that LCP .380.”

  “Like you did much better,” I said, lowering my gun as I begrudgingly followed him. “Yeah. They had you hemmed up behind that tire over there, boss. And I’m still waitin’ on a ‘thank you, Paris’ or sumthin’.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. But the plan wasn’t for me to get caught,” he groused as he casually fired a shot into the body that lay in the entrance then kept walking.

  “I got a scooter. A Vespa in the grass near the road. Over there,” I said as I pointed toward the road where, according to Niles, more trouble would be coming. “But it needs gas.”

  “Really? A Vespa?” he said with a sneer. “Yo, we gotta roll. And roll hard.”

  “That raggedy Jeep you got there ain’t fast either,” I shot back . . . verbally. “Maybe they wouldn’t have caught you if it was.”

  “I’m not talking about the Jeep,” he said as he walked over to the still-running Audi with the dead body in the driver’s seat.

  “Who shot him? You had some backup, right?” I asked as I looked a little more closely at the shots placed through the windshield into what used to be the driver.

  “Nah,” he said as he grabbed the body by its jacket collar and pulled it out onto the ground. “Did it myself with that,” he indicated with a bit of pride.

  I spied the discarded black rifle lying on the ground by the Jeep. And a Halliburton briefcase left open and on its side. It didn’t hold paperwork after all, but had foam cutaways inside.

  “Was someone shooting at you atop that hill?” I asked, figuring the answer even as I asked.

  “No. I was the one doing the shooting,” he said as he wiped some of the dead guy’s brains off the steering wheel and changed the radio station.

  “Eeew,” I squealed as my face scrunched up. “That is just nasty. Hope you plan on throwing away those gloves. And using some hand sanitizer, too.”

  “Quit playing and get in because you’re gonna be driving.”

  “What?” I blurted out.

  Niles

  25

  We were on a road, working our way back toward Valencia, and both of us were stressed the fuck out.

  “You got me sitting in the mess you made. Know how gross this is?” she asked, trying to get comfortable with the blood and stench of death on her clothes. “And why in the fuck do you have me driving anyway?”

  “Because with you at the wheel we stand the best chance of us making it back. The ones still alive didn’t see you,” I said from my reclined position in the passenger seat, my gun aimed at her side since we got on the road. Every few minutes or so, I would raise my head to peer out the window.

  “Why are you in Spain? For real,” she asked.

  “Just doing a job,” I calmly replied as if we were just going for a leisurely drive, never mind the fact that we had racked up a body count and the day wasn’t over. “I took out a very big someone in one of his villas. Straight sniped him from the hilltop above while he was tending his garden. Lliria’s his hometown. This was supposed to be a place where he felt safe enough to be without his usual security entourage. At least that’s what my contact, that man you saw me with, told me. Shame on me for believing him. And shame on him for trying to be greedy and change the terms of our agreement.”

  “So you’re not a money manager at all.” Paris actually sounded shocked and hostile.

  “Ding-ding,” I replied. “Just my cover for my being here. Mixed in a little fun, too, took in the local sights . . . to keep up pretenses.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what being a ho is called? And why are you being so forthcoming now?” she asked.

  I watched the cars passing us while wondering if I should instead be concerned about the woman driving the car. “I dunno. Maybe because I don’t think we’ll make it outta this alive. Or maybe I’ve decided to kill you when this is over,” I said. I rested my finger on the trigger with the safety off just in case. “Where’d you learn the craft anyway?” I asked, referring to that which we both seemed to do oh so well. “One of those schools?”

  “Yeah,” she answered.

  I’d heard about a certain kind of school that trained you to become a cold-blooded killer. I knew better than to dig too deep. Apparently they swore you to secrecy once you enrolled. “Did you attend one?” she asked me.

  “Nah,” I replied. “No ‘Hogwarts for Hit Men’ for me. I didn’t have some rich sponsor to put me through one of them. Picked up my talents on the streets then worked my way up. On-the-job tra
ining for this boy.”

  “And that British accent? What about that? I ain’t no expert, but I’ve been in Europe for a minute. You got ’em straight fooled.”

  “My moms met my dad in New York, but she was from the UK. A pale white lady from Dover speaking all proper and hooking up in Brooklyn with a hard mofo from Ghana. Life is funny as fuck. God really got a sense of humor, yo,” I admitted. Even gave her a mischievous smile. “And what about you, princess? You came here to merc someone too?”

  “Hell nah. I came here to chill. Furreal,” she said with a laugh. “My plan was to stay out of trouble.”

  “Yet here you are,” I muttered. “Deep in the shit.”

  She’d taken a route bypassing Lliria and sticking to the smaller roads. But as we got closer to Valencia, both the traffic and tension picked up.

  “We’ll need to ditch the car soon. Probably burn it or dump it in a lake or something. Don’t want anybody connecting us to all this mess or tracking us back,” I said, bringing up my seatback. “Maybe we’ll walk the rest of the way in. Or catch a cab. Pull over up there,” I instructed, pointing to a spot half a mile up where a little side road branched off toward a farming community.

  Our luck ran out though on that final approach to Valencia. We were so busy talking that we got caught slippin’ to the point of not noticing the Audi A8—one identical to ours except minus the guts, gore, and bullet holes—until it passed me. Oh. And as its brake lights flashed in the rearview mirror we remembered the other distinct difference.

  The men inside that fucker wanted to kill us.

  “It’s them!” I yelled at Paris, hoping she could handle the wheel. “They just lost their boss. Believe me when I say they ain’t gonna stop and ask which nigga did what no matter how pretty you look.”

  She floored the Audi, needing no direction about what to do. I was impressed. But where to go was another matter.

  “Where am I going? Tell me where to go,” she shouted at me.

  “If we head back into the city, the cops will probably get involved. I don’t kill cops, so take the road where I told you to pull over. Do it now!” Just as she swerved onto the asphalt road heading toward the farm, our back glass exploded. Shards of glass flew throughout the inside, pelting us as the sound of rounds striking the trunk and taillights drove home how fast things were going south.

  “They’ve got a fuckin’ assault rifle!” I screamed to Paris, wanting her to take extra precaution.

  “No shit!” she yelled back over the racing of the engine while snaking the A8 back and forth across the lanes to avoid another direct hit like that. Paris briefly went off the road, cursing over the near miss we had with a truck carrying goats. In my side-view mirror, I could see them somehow gaining on us.

  Another shot landed, this time sparks erupting as they took out the door mirror the moment we switched lanes again.

  “They’re trying to take out the tires,” I cursed as I glanced back. I undid my seat belt and rolled backward into the rear seat. Risking death, I carefully took aim and fired a single shot at our pursuers. I saw them respond to the bullet striking their windshield by backing off.

  But not for long as another hail of gunfire erupted in our direction. I dove for cover just as the first bullet missed me and struck the dashboard radio, causing all the electronics in the car to blink out for a second. “If we’re not going to outrun them, we gotta get them closer,” I called as I checked the number of rounds left in my clip. “You down for that, Paris?”

  “Closer. Yeah,” she replied through clenched teeth.

  Yeah. We were dead.

  Nadja

  26

  I tried to stop that crazy American from following Niles but she was moving too fast. He didn’t have a phone—not a great idea in case things went badly—so I couldn’t warn him, and the last thing I could do was follow him. Shit! I was going out of my mind waiting to find out if he had successfully completed the assignment or if she had destroyed the entire operation. I did not want to be the one to tell my father that I’d allowed some horny American bitch to interfere in our work. And I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she was some plant and out to hurt or even kill Niles. This was much worse than I thought. I needed to find out exactly who this woman was and stop her in her tracks.

  I approached the concierge at the front desk.

  “Hello, may I help you?” She smiled, ready to fix all my problems.

  “Yes, there is a mujer Americana negra staying at the hotel?”

  “Madame Hosseini, I am not sure to whom you are referring!” she said, even though we both knew there was only one black woman in the entire hotel.

  “She looks like that singer Beyoncé?” I reached in my wallet and pulled out a bill large enough to loosen her lips. “We were supposed to meet for drinks and I’ve forgotten her name.”

  “Oh, you must mean Madame Wimberly.”

  “Ah, yes, Wimberly. And her first name?”

  “Paris, like the city.”

  Humph, typical. “And where is she from?”

  “America!” the hostess pronounced excitedly as if it was her dream to go there.

  “Yes, but I mean do you know where in America?”

  “No.” She nodded. “America!”

  “Thank you.” I stepped away from the desk, already working my Internet. I didn’t know where she was from but she was now in my world and I had a few things to teach Miss Wimberly.

  After an hour of intense Internet searching I did not come across anyone who matched the description of our nosy American. She didn’t strike me as the type of woman who filed easily into the background. It was obvious from my inspection of her couture wardrobe and Cartier diamond watch that she was only comfortable among the finer things in life. The Wimberlys I discovered online were all in the South and of a lower to middle social and economic class. No, this bitch had been exposed to some things ’cause she walked around like she owned shit. Maybe she was the mistress of some rap star or athlete. But that would mean that she was cheating with Niles. I could say one thing and end her cushy existence. Yeah, I was about to make this whore sorry she’d ever stepped one foot into Valencia. I did a quick search of all the black gossip sites. An hour later I’d gotten absolutely nowhere.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Navid. He wasn’t just an assistant; his tech skills were part of the reason he made five times what my second assistant received. The other part was his loyalty. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t share with him.

  “Get me everything you can find on a black American, Paris Wimberly. She’s probably early twenties. I don’t care if you’re busy; this takes precedence.” I fumed as I hung up, frustrated and ready to throw something. I wasn’t about to let this floozy ruin everything I had been building. She was a nothing and a nobody and the sooner I got her away from Niles the better.

  Paris

  27

  A sandy dirt road between the rows of fruit trees caught my attention. I gambled, ignoring Niles’s squawking, and made a hard right turn onto it, thankful the car was able to handle it. I held the pedal down, having no time for worry as Niles finally righted himself in his seat. In my rearview mirror, I could see nothing but gravel and dust flying up behind us. This would’ve been fun if not for Niles’s sobering bullet holes in the windshield directly in front, reminding me what being on the losing end meant.

  While plowing through rows of fig trees, Niles told me of the desperate idea he’d come up with. After hearing his bat-shit-ass plan and agreeing to it, I slammed on the brakes, partially running the Audi off the modest road and into a cluster of trees.

  “Are you ready?” Niles asked, checking his weaponry: the Sig Sauer and those crazy curved knives of his. I still had Daddy’s gifts, but was down to only a few rounds in my clip and my blade for who knew how many were coming for us.

  “I got no choice, so yeah,” I replied with a genuine smile. From our first meeting on the hotel elevator to the yacht to now, I was willi
ng to admit I enjoyed his company no matter how crazy the drama.

  With our time fleeting, Niles kissed me tenderly. Perhaps to say good-bye, but it felt like we were just being introduced for the first time: a girl from Queens and a guy from Brooklyn. Made me want to tell him who I really was and how I ran things, but we didn’t have time for my scorecard. I could hear our pursuers almost upon us, hard charging in their car with dark intentions on their minds.

  “Now,” Niles said, putting our plan into action.

  When they caught up to our car, I said a silent prayer to get us out of this mess. From the limited view my vantage point gave me, I watched five men slowly exit their Audi and methodically surround the car we’d abandoned. We’d left all its doors open to confuse them as to how many people they were up against. I also hoped the blood all over the driver’s seat and my ruined Nike jacket left on the ground would make them think they’d shot me and I’d fled.

  As best I could tell, the men were carefully fanning out, as they spoke Spanish at a rapid clip. One man, the one apparently in charge, sat on the hood of their car screaming orders, and even slapped the head of the one carrying the automatic rifle: a black H&K from what I could tell. As they moved about and out of my limited line of sight, I didn’t dare move a muscle for fear of giving away our position. Niles was crouched over beside me on his knees in an impossible position, but his muscles hadn’t failed him yet as he stayed immobile. In the dim light we had, his eyes were on overload, blinking rapidly. We struggled to hear what was being said. It was a critical time, because we only had, as that old Mr. Scarface’s song went, “A Minute to Pray and a Second to Die.”