The driver leaned back over his seat. “Will one of you tell me where we’re going?”
Her eyes remained locked on Piers. “I saw it first. And you’re just some tourist. Get out. I live here. I need a taxi.”
“Please. One of you tell me where we’re going,” the driver said, agitated.
Piers glanced at the driver. “Hotel La—”
She waved her hand in front of his face. “Non, non. Rue de—”
There was more shouting outside the cab then a large, wet man dived headlong through the open door and across the rear seat. The man rolled around, his elbows and knees digging into Piers. The girl lurched away from them.
Piers opened his mouth, but his throat closed up at the sight of a gun in the man’s hand. His heart thumped hard against his ribs. His arms locked solid and his legs felt like lead. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
The man waved the gun at the driver. “Vite, vite! Drive! Go!”
The driver turned around slowly, his eyes wide and magnetically attracted to the gun.
Piers glimpsed the girl moving her hand toward the door handle. She hadn’t reached it before he heard strange popping sounds behind them and the car’s rear window exploded in a storm of tiny daggers.
“Shit!” She yelled as she rolled forward into the footwell.
The man fired two shots through the hole where the rear window had been. “Fucking go!”
Piers slapped his hands over his ears. He’d never heard a real gun fired. His head rang and his ears hurt. He thought the girl was screaming, but he couldn’t be sure. It seemed like every tin drum in the world was making a noise in his ear at once.
The car fishtailed away from the curb and the man lurched to one side, dropping his phone. The driver huddled down, only the top of his head visible above the dashboard.
The man struggled over Piers and grabbed for his phone as it slid around on the floor. He missed it, turned, and fired another shot through the rear window.
The driver took a right-hand corner fast. Piers slid across the seat, crushing up against the man and the girl. The man shouted something. Piers pulled himself back onto his side of the car while the man fired more shots. The girl remained in the footwell, her hands clamped over her ears and the man’s phone wedged under her knee.
Piers caught a glimpse of a car behind them struggling to take the same corner. It bounced on the curb, smashed into a wall, and disappeared in a cloud of steam. Behind it, he could see a police car come to a halt and two officers getting out.
Finally, the police to the rescue.
He breathed a sigh of relief until he looked down and saw blood all over his shirt. Shit! He ran his hands over himself. Nothing seemed to hurt. Then he saw the man laid back on the seat, blood pumping from a hole in his shoulder.
“Slow down!” Piers yelled at the driver.
The driver looked back before taking Piers’ advice.
The girl looked up at Piers. “Is he …?”
The man grunted and raised his head. He waved his gun feebly in the driver’s direction. “They … not the police. Keep driving. Don’t stop. No matter what.”
“The guys behind us crashed,” Piers said. “The police are on the scene.”
“They’ll kill the police and get another car. They won’t give up until they get me.”
The sound of an engine screaming grew behind them. The man looked at Piers with an I-told-you-so face. He grimaced as he wrenched himself into an upright position.
Piers kept low and looked to the rear. A police car was gaining on them. The man waved his gun drunkenly and fired.
Now he was in a gunfight with the police?
The police fired back and hit the man. He sank down until his face was level with Piers. His eyes drifted left and right then locked onto the small emblem on Piers’ shirt. He grabbed it, yanking Piers closer, and wedging the gun under his jaw. Piers forced his tongue into the bottom of his mouth as if he could push away the gun.
The man’s lower lip quivered. “Fucking Waterloo.” He shook Piers. “They … they … th—”
His head lolled and his grip on Piers’ shirt was gone in an instant. The gun tumbled to the floor. A dark red stain spread from the center of the man’s chest. His limp body sagged onto the rear seat, slid into the footwell, and slumped against the girl.
She screamed and wriggled out of the gap, her hands flapping at the man. “God, get him off me!”
The driver turned around. “Is he dead?”
Piers saw the taxi veering toward the sidewalk. He wanted to shout, but it was too late. He screwed his eyes shut as the car smashed into an old iron bollard on the side of the road. Piers’ face hammered into the back of the passenger seat. His chest followed, crushing his breath from his body. Pain seared through his hips and shoulders. The girl’s screams filled the car.
The rear of the car lifted off the ground, twisted around and came down onto a line of mopeds and motorbikes. The dead man’s body lurched over Piers. He shoved it aside while the car still rocked on its suspension.
Piers could see the police car screech to a halt behind them. Two men in black suits jumped out, one a giant and the other completely bald. They were shouting, but Piers couldn’t understand what they were saying.
He rolled out of his door. The girl was staring at him, her eyes pleading. He held out his hand. “It’s okay. This way. They’re police. We’re okay.”
“No, no, not the police.” She stared at him, her mouth half open, then hurled herself out of the other side of the car and ran.
The giant barked an order that sounded like Russian and the bald man rugby-tackled the girl, handcuffed her wrists, and dragged her toward the police car.
Piers turned away.
Hell, the dead man was right: they weren’t police. They were the bad guys. They must have been in the car that crashed and taken the police car, like the dead man said. Now they must think he and the girl were involved with the dead guy.
He inched from the car. There was one motorbike left standing, its key dangling temptingly from the ignition switch. He’d never ridden a motorbike before, but he was an engineer, he knew how they worked. The throttle and brake were all that mattered. Surely he could handle that?
He took a deep breath, stepped onto the bike and pushed it forward. The kickstand snapped up and the bike bounced gently on its suspension.
The giant looked in his direction.
Piers smiled as he twisted the ignition key. The bike burst into life with an angry scream. His heart skipped a beat and his hands jerked away from the handlebars as if they were electrified.
Both men stared at him.
“Bonjour,” called Piers.
He dipped the clutch, tapped the bike into gear, and twisted the throttle. The engine revved smoothly. He was surprised how easy it was, just like the video games he played. He was home free.
Then the giant brought up an enormous gun.
Piers ducked and twisted the throttle. The engine screamed and the bike shot forward, into the taxi. With a painful screeching of metal he scraped along the side of the vehicle, gripping the handlebar like a vice and swearing all the way.
The giant’s gun thundered and automatic fire chewed up the bricks in the wall behind him, showering him with dust.
“We’re innocent! We didn’t know the man in the taxi!” Piers yelled, struggling to keep the bike upright. He squeezed the brake, and slid around the front of the car in a cloud of blue smoke, ending up facing the giant. “Don’t shoot!”
The man leveled his gun. Piers ducked lower, pushing his elbows out and losing hold of the brake. The bike pitched up and raced forward, smoke pouring from its rear wheel. He squeezed his knees into the bike desperate to hold on. As he rode past the giant, his outstretched elbow caught the man in the jaw, punching him backward and launching his gun into the air.
“Shit! Sorry, sorry, sorry,” said Piers, but he couldn’t stop the bike.
The bald man thre
w the girl to the ground and yanked a gun from inside his jacket.
Piers’ knees gave out and he slid off the back of the bike. He hopped along, gripping the handlebars until he finally caught the brake pedal with his foot. The bike toppled forward, wrenching him back onto the seat and flinging his legs out ahead of him. His heel smashed squarely into the bald man’s chest, folding him up and hurling him backward over the police car.
The girl lay curled up on the ground. He brought the bike to a shuddering halt beside her and held out a trembling hand. He had to help her. His voice wavered with his pounding heart. “You … you okay?”
She pulled herself up, swept her bound arms over Piers’ head, and slipped onto the bike behind him.
He unclipped a helmet and held it out for her. As she waved it away, he glimpsed the giant scrabbling for his gun. “No, no. Don’t. We’re innocent. This is just a misunderstanding.”
The girl slid her hand down Piers’ arm and twisted the throttle.
“Noooooooooooo!” screamed Piers.
The bike weaved, its rear tire struggling for grip. The giant swung the gun around toward them. Piers fought to keep his balance as they raced forward. The helmet felt like lead in his hand, and before he could move, it smashed into the man’s face, flooring him.
Piers tossed the helmet and accelerated down the street, the front wheel in the air, the rear pouring smoke, and his heart in his mouth.
Chapter 5
Pierre “Matchstick” Morel gripped the telephone receiver so hard it almost broke. He had gained his nickname partly because of his six-feet, 156-pound frame, and partly because he had a predilection for burning buildings. Usually the buildings of his enemies, and usually while his enemies were in them.
He forced himself to relax his grip on the phone, and breathed out a long hiss through his teeth. “What the hell do you mean, Auguste is gone?”
“There was shooting.”
“Shooting? Who the hell was shooting?”
“Auguste, sir. He went mad.”
“Auguste? If Auguste went mad then there was something bloody wrong. I should never have trusted that fucking dictator. He was there, non?”
“Who, sir.”
“The dictator, you idiot!”
“Oh, yes, him.”
“So, he was there?”
“No, sir.”
“No? You said yes.”
“No, sir. Well, yes, I did say yes, but no. No. No, he wasn’t there.”
“Listen. The fact that you and I share a great-grandfather is the one and only reason I’m not hunting for you with a can of gas. Get it?”
“Right, sir. Yes. Got it. Sir.”
“Good. Now bring me the painting. I’ve already sold it for twice what I paid the dictator.”
“Errrrr, Auguste had the painting, sir.”
Morel rolled his head around, stretching his neck. “So? What’s the problem? Tell Auguste to bring it to me.”
“But, Auguste’s gone, sir.”
Morel stopped rolling his head around. “Gone where? Exactly?”
There was no reply.
“Where the bloody hell has Auguste gone?” he yelled.
“Gone as in dead, sir.”
“Dead!”
“The dictator’s men shot him.”
“Shot him?”
“In a taxi.”
“What they hell was he doing in a taxi?”
“We, er, don’t know, sir.”
Morel breathed out, and regretted his decision not to send more men with more firepower.
“So, where’s my painting?”
“Er . . .”
Morel leapt to his feet. “You don’t know?” he yelled. He gripped the phone so hard his hand trembled. “I can’t believe you screwed this up. I brought you in to keep watch on this operation. Nothing complicated. Just to keep watch.”
“We did watch. The police were there, and there was lots of shooting, and we were gridlocked, and—”
“Spare me. You searched this taxi?”
“The painting definitely wasn’t in it.”
Morel groaned. “Can this day get any worse?”
“There’s something else. There was a man and a woman in the taxi.”
“Did they have the painting?”
“No. We’d have seen it when they left.
“You let them leave?” Morel’s voice inched up an octave.
“Er, well, they were on a motorbike. They went off fast, clouds of smoke and—”
“You mean you lost them. The only lead we have and you let them get away. You slimy, good-for-nothing—”
“No, no, no. There’s Auguste’s phone, see. It’s still moving.”
Morel’s face froze between anger and a sneer. “So?”
“Moving the same way the man and woman went.”
“So, track them! Find them! Threaten them! Do whatever it takes, but find my bloody painting!”
“Yes, sir. Definitely, sir. No problem. We’re on it.”
“You better bloody had be. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”
“And then?”
“I’ll go all matchstick on them.”
There was a small laugh. “That should do it.”
Morel lowered his voice. “And on you, too. Understand?”
The man on the other end of the line swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter 6
“Slow down,” the girl shouted in Piers’ ear. “You’re going to get us killed.”
“They could be behind us.”
“You shook them off a while ago.”
“Why didn’t you bloody tell me?”
“I just did.”
Piers eased up on the throttle. The engine groaning as it slowed.
“Go left here,” she said.
“It’s a one-way street.”
“It’s okay. I live up there.”
Piers forced himself to relax, braked for the corner and turned into the street, ignoring the no-entry sign. A car horn blared and he veered for the gutter, narrowly missing a Ford heading in the opposite direction.
“How far?” he said.
“Not far. Maybe a mile.”
“A mile! For god’s sake, we could get arrested.”
“Does James Bond worry about one-way streets?”
He avoided another car as it raced by, headlights flashing at them.
“No, but he’s not real.”
“Tell me about it. You try and get a guy to dress proper these days.” She patted him on the shoulder. “No offense.”
“Oh, none taken. I’ve been kicking myself all day for forgetting my tux on this trip.”
“Right, see what I mean? Guys just don’t want to wear nice clothes anymore.”
Piers rolled his eyes. “Maybe it’s because—”
The girl squeezed Piers with her arms and nodded toward a line of scooters by a café. “Stop over there.”
Piers braked hard, almost throwing them both off, and lurched into the parking spot.
The café’s patrons turned as one to stare at the interruption to their morning croissants.
She scissored her legs gracefully and twisted off the back of the bike, her arms still secured around Piers.
He felt the patrons’ stares leave the bike and focus on them as a couple.
The girl’s face was inches from his. She gave a momentary smile, which lifted her eyebrows. “Er . . . um . . . this is embarrassing, but could we possibly just walk . . . you know, like,” she squeezed him, “arm in arm?”
Piers drew his head back. “Arm in arm? Arm in bloody arm? You’re nuts! We’ve been shot at, crashed a taxi, stolen a motorbike, bloody near killed ourselves in these stupid narrow roads and—”
She smiled, big, broad, a thousand watts. “I know, and you were brilliant.”
“I—”
She gripped him with her cuffed arms and kissed him full on the lips, bold, brief, and hard.
His jaw hung slack and his eyes converged on a point inc
hes in front of his nose.
She wrenched his numbed body off the motorbike. “Come on, before anyone sees these handcuffs.”
He staggered, struggling to keep his balance. “What the hell are we doing? Those people could catch up any moment.”
“No problem.” She dragged him to a pair of narrow double doors and barged through into an equally narrow hallway. Wallpaper curled from the ceiling and the painted woodwork hadn’t been white for decades. A set of stairs ran upward. She took the first step and raised her cuffed hands over his head.
Piers grabbed her wrists. “What are we doing? Who were those people? How—”
She pulled free and held a finger over his mouth, “Sssshhh.”
Piers quieted.
Her smile faded in an instant. “Good. Now, take the back door, go right, and down two blocks. There’s a Métro station. You’ll be okay then.” Her smiled flashed again. “See ya,” she said, and she bounded up the stairs.
“What? No! Wait!”
She turned and jerked her head toward the rear door. “It’d be for the best.”
“What would be? Have me walk out and get gunned down by some nutcase? Am I supposed to be some decoy—”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m being ridiculous? You drag me into god knows what, get me shot at, and dump me Christ knows where, and I’m the one who’s being ridiculous?”
“Ooohhh. You’re English, aren’t you?”
“What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
Before she could reply, a door creaked and an old woman’s voice called out “Who’s there?”
The girl’s pencil thin eyebrows narrowed. “Merde.” She beckoned Piers frantically. “Up here. Now. Vite, vite, vite.”
“What? One minute it’s so-long-and-thanks-for-all-the-fish and the next I have to follow your every instruction?”
“You’re the one who’s worried about nutcases, and this one’s a doozy. What’s more, you’re a guy. She’ll want a kiss.”
Footsteps echoed on old floorboards. “Who is it? Who’s there? Is that a man’s voice?”
The girl gave Piers a told-you-so smile and bounded up the stairs. Piers followed, three steps at a time. On the third floor, the girl crashed into a door, fumbled the key into the lock, and swept inside. Piers dived after her and she swung the door closed, gently lowering the latch.
Paris Love Match Page 2