by Mark Parragh
“I don’t think so. What am I going to do? I can’t go home! My—”
Behind him the door opened. Crane reached out and pressed gently on Mesnard’s shoulder to slide him farther back against the rear wall.
The newcomer was Crane’s age, lean with a shock of surfer blonde hair. He wore baggy, pocketed cargo shorts, boat shoes, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a t-shirt for some band Crane didn’t recognize. Plenty of places he might hide a gun. By the time Crane had assessed him, the man’s eyes had adjusted to the inside light. He looked back at them and waved.
“Afternoon,” he said in a loud, American-accented voice. “You two guys Americans? Me too.”
He walked straight toward the booth. Crane slipped the Sig Sauer from its holster and passed it to his left hand; he wanted his right free, and even off-handed he wouldn’t miss at this range.
“You’ve got a great spot back in this corner, don’t you?” the man said. “Fantastic view. Hey, you a Yankees fan? All right, go Yanks!”
He didn’t seem concerned that they weren’t answering him. Then Crane realized he wasn’t talking to them at all. He was passing intel to the men outside. The mic would be concealed somewhere in his shirt.
The spotter had almost reached them, and Crane was already starting to power himself up from his seat when he heard shouts from outside, then the crack of gunfire.
The spotter whipped out a pistol but Crane caught the man’s wrist with his right hand and smashed it hard against the edge of the table. The gun flew free. It bounced across the table, and for one terrible instant, Crane thought Mesnard would grab for it and try to defend himself. Then it slid off the table’s far edge and fell into Crane’s seat.
The man tried to yank his wrist free from Crane’s grip. With his other hand he pulled a knife from his waistband. But before he could bring it to bear, Crane jammed the Sig Sauer in his left hand into the spotter’s navel and fired two shots up into his torso.
The spotter looked at Crane in shock. He stumbled backwards and Crane went with him, adding his own strength to the dying man’s momentum. As they reached the wall, Crane grabbed his belt and powered him up and over the edge.
He toppled over the wall, hit the ground with a thud, and slid thirty feet down the slope until his body came to rest against a buckthorn bush.
Just as Crane passed the gun back to his right hand, the door crashed open and a shape flew through it. Crane whirled to fire, but realized there was no need. A heavyset man in track pants and a blood-soaked t-shirt hit the nearest table hard, then slid to the floor and didn’t move.
Outside, the shooting had stopped.
Crane turned back to the booth. Mesnard cringed in the corner, pale and wide-eyed. Crane holstered his pistol, took Mesnard’s arm and guided him out of the booth.
“Oh god,” Mesnard muttered. “Oh god. What do we do?”
“We’re leaving,” Crane said calmly. “Stick close to me. Walk fast, and look scared. Can you do that?”
Mesnard nodded. “Oh, yes.”
Crane led him out of the bar keeping himself between Mesnard and the dead Serb. Outside, another body lay sprawled near the steps. A few yards uphill, Parikh’s knee was jammed into the back of a third man, face down in the dirt, his hands secured by a plastic zip tie. Parikh jabbed an ampoule into the man’s neck and his struggles faded.
As they passed, Crane and Parikh traded a glance and a quick nod. Then Crane moved on, hurrying the trembling Mesnard up the stairs.
A small knot of guests and staff had gathered in the lobby. Crane threw the door open and rushed Mesnard through. He put some panic into his voice. “Call the police! They’re shooting each other!”
Then they were gone before anyone had time to think too much. Crane swept Mesnard out the front door and bundled him into the Jaguar.
“Is there anything in your car that you need?” he asked.
“Just clothes and a toothbrush,” said Mesnard. He made a sound that was probably meant to be a bitter laugh. “Nothing that matters now. They know what I did. I’m a dead man.”
“No,” said Crane. “You’re unemployed. But you’re not going to die.”
Crane swung the car onto the highway and drove fast to the south. Behind them, police lights approached the hotel from Pesaro. Crane gave the car its head and put some distance between himself and the scene.
“Why not? They can kill me whenever they want.”
“It’s too late for that,” Crane said. “Cat’s out of the bag. All killing you gains them now is the satisfaction of revenge. And I’m going to make sure they understand that pleasure would be very short-lived.”
He accelerated around a Renault. “As for your career problem, you should talk to my employer. He’s fascinated by your work. I know he’d love to talk to you. Pay’s good.” Crane patted the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “Nice perks.”
Five hours later, at Ancona Falconara Airport, Crane watched Mesnard board an Alitalia shuttle to Rome. From there he was booked on four different flights, but he wouldn’t be on any of them. Instead he would be on a chartered jet to London.
As the turboprop took off, Crane walked back out to the parking lot. His own flight left from Perugia just before midnight. Crane pointed the Jaguar west on the SS 76. If he put his foot down, he’d have time for a late dinner.
The console chimed to signal an incoming call. Crane didn’t recognize the number, but he checked Chris Parikh’s card and smiled. He tapped the answer button.
“Saw you got your guy,” he said.
“Being questioned as we speak,” said Parikh. “You get your man out?”
“On his way to a new life.”
“Glad it worked out for you. Just be careful out there. You don’t have the government backing you up anymore.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “But don’t mistake official orders for legitimacy. You know the things governments get up to.”
“I don’t make the policy. I just finish the mission.”
“Well, if you ever need to get out, talk to me.” Crane grinned. “Have you ever considered piracy? You’d make a wonderful Dread Pirate Roberts.”
Parikh laughed. “Screw you, Crane. Stay safe.” The call clicked off.
This had been a good day, Crane thought. Parikh was right. He didn’t have the full force and resources of the United States Government behind him anymore. But he was pleased to discover that he really didn’t mind.
Then he dropped the pedal, the Jaguar’s V-8 responded with a throaty roar, and Crane sped into the night.
Afterword
Since this is the first John Crane novel, let me begin by thanking you for taking a chance on a new author! I hope you liked Rope on Fire, and that you’re curious to see what comes next for John Crane and his supporting cast.
This is indeed just the beginning for Crane. You can always find free short stories and novellas at my web site at MarkParragh.com, or at the John Crane site at AgentCrane.com. The second Crane novel, Wrecker, will be available in the fall of 2016, and the third is presently on the drawing board. I’m committed to this series, and I hope you’ll join me; I’ve got a lot of fun things planned for the coming months.
If you’ve enjoyed reading Rope on Fire, please consider leaving a review on Amazon. There’s a new world of publishing out there that brings you a much richer diversity of stories. But with that comes the challenge of finding the things you want to read. Honest and thoughtful reviews from other readers are a crucial part of that system. So your review supports the books you enjoy by helping other readers find them, and also helps me give you better books.
Thank you!
– Mark Parragh, July 2016
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