by L. T. Ryan
"Drugs, extortion, leading a criminal organization. Pretty basic stuff, Jack."
Jack nodded. "Read the last line."
Pierre raised an eyebrow. "Human trafficking? Intriguing."
"I'd say so," Jack said. "Rumor has it he is involved in kidnapping young children then shipping them off. The sex trade they call it."
Pierre curled his lips and pinched at his nose. "Sick bastard. What is he doing in France?"
"He was brought up on charges of tax evasion and wire fraud. Only charges they could get to stick." Jack ran his hands through his dark hair. "He got out on bail and fled. Spends his time between various countries. Right now they believe he is here, in Paris."
Pierre flipped over a chair and sat across from Jack. "So what do you need me here for? Certainly not to be the shooter."
Jack smiled. "No, I can handle that part. I need your intelligence network. Your people might be tracking him and know where he is and where he goes during the day."
"I see," Pierre said. "I can look into this for you. One thing though."
"Yeah?"
"I want to be there for the hit."
Jack studied the man for a minute before responding. He had to make sure that Pierre would not jeopardize the assignment. Failure to take out the target would lead to major problems for the government. But that wasn’t what he cared so much about. He was more worried about the mess it could create. A mess he would need to clean up. A mess that could interfere with the exchange of the documents for Clarissa.
"OK, you can be there for the hit. You can even help me plan it."
"Excellent," Pierre said.
Pierre reached over and shook Jack's hand. He got up and stopped at the door. "I'll call you as soon as I have some information. I'll begin working on it as soon as I get back to my office."
With that, he left and Jack laid back, closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Pierre stepped onto the street and whistled an old tune, one that his grandfather used to whistle when they went sailing when Pierre was a boy. He walked at a normal pace until he turned onto the side street that led to the lot where he had parked his car. Then he broke out into a run. He managed to keep his excitement over the case to a minimum in front of Jack, but now he let it out freely.
He got into his car and sped off toward his office. He kept replaying the scene in his head, remembering every detail about the once great Mitchell Foster. Ashamed to admit it in front of Jack, Pierre loved A Dance with Assassins, Foster's big hit, the one that propelled him to super-stardom. He could only recall a few other films made by the man. They were awful. Cash grabs, basically. Then he had lost sight of him and had forgotten all about him until today.
Lost in thought, Pierre didn't register that the car in front of him was stopped until it was almost too late. He hit the brakes, slammed on the horn and came within inches of hitting the vehicle. He buried his face in his hands, controlled his breathing and got his heart rate back to normal. When he opened his eyes he saw two large men standing on either side of his car at the front.
He held up his hands and made a sheepish face. Apparently that wasn't good enough.
The guy closest to him motioned with his finger for Pierre to get out of his car.
Pierre opened his door and acted like he was going to step out. Instead he threw the car into reverse and floored it. Before the men could react, Pierre whipped around a corner, just missing an old lady crossing the street. He spun the car around and stepped on the gas and kept his eyes on the rear view mirror and saw the car with the two large men turn the corner.
"Great, just what I need," he muttered.
The car closed the gap and rammed his bumper. He lost control of his vehicle briefly. He pulled over to the side of the road rather than trying to make another risky turn or get nudged off entirely by the maniacs behind him.
Pierre stepped out of the car, trying his best to remain calm. He moved to the front of his car, giving himself a shield should the man driving the Audi decide to run him over. He waited for the men to make a move.
The passenger stepped out first, carrying a bat. He walked around the back of the car, stood in front of the driver's door. The driver stepped out. It appeared that he had something in his hand, but Pierre couldn't make it out with the other guy blocking the view.
Pierre threw up his hands. "Guys, I'm not really sure what the problem is here?"
The driver stepped out from behind his massive friend, took a few steps toward Pierre and stopped. He was tall, over six feet and heavily muscled. Pierre estimated he was well over two hundred pounds. Both men had shaved heads. The man in the passenger seat was taller than the driver and had at least another hundred pounds on him. His big barrel chest gave way to an even bigger barrel stomach. It would be wise to avoid the bat should it come swinging Pierre's way.
"You really don't want to mess with me," Pierre said. "I'm just on my way to the office."
"Shut up," the driver said. "Turn around."
"Turn around? Afraid I'm going to have to respectfully decline." Pierre lowered his arms. "I will, however, place my hands behind my back."
The passenger started toward him. "Get your hands where I can see them."
Pierre sighed. "As you wish, monsieur."
He flung his right arm around faster than the passenger could react. Pierre aimed his nine millimeter at the man's head and pulled the trigger.
The large man stopped, almost suspended mid stride, when the bullet crashed through his skull and tore through his brain. Almost as soon as it happened, he collapsed.
Pierre turned his attention to the driver. "I did try to warn you that you didn't want to mess with me."
The driver stepped back and tried frantically to open his door.
Pierre closed the distance in a second and whipped the gun across the bridge of the man's nose. Blood sprayed and the driver covered his face with his hands and fell back against his car. Blood leaked through his fingers. His broken glasses dangled from his ears.
"Please," he said. "I'll do anything you want."
"I wanted you to leave me alone, but you ignored that request."
The man started to cry.
Some thug.
Pierre held the gun to the man's head and pulled the trigger. The driver's body jerked backwards and then slumped down the car and onto the ground.
A crowd had gathered. Not what Pierre wanted, but this wasn’t the first time a crowd had gathered as he killed or beat somebody. Being one of the nation's top assassins had its benefits. One of those benefits being he had a virtual get-out-of-jail-free card. He was, in essence, a man who recognized no laws.
He shrugged at the crowd. "Street thugs." Then he got in his car and drove away.
5
Clarissa stared out the window. She had a decent view of Paris, the Eiffel Tower in the distance. She'd be able to watch the sun set behind it. But she had no idea what hotel they were in. If it weren't for the view, she wouldn't even know which city she was in.
She remembered getting on the plane and being forced to have a drink. Then her memory of events simply stopped somewhere over the Atlantic and only picked back up Monday evening, when she woke up in the hotel room. There had been a tray beside the bed. It contained a decent meal, which she ate in five minutes. The old man came to see her that night, told her that they were here to make an exchange with Jack. Her for the documents, he told her. As long as Jack held up his end, she would be free to go. Clarissa asked him if Charles was at the hotel too. He said yes, Charles was in the hotel, his room across from hers. He must have sensed her apprehension, or perhaps he saw her crying, because he came back later and told her that he had moved Charles to another floor and stationed two guards outside her door.
That was pretty much it, as far as contact went. Every four hours one of the guards would knock on her door, she'd open it, and they'd slide a cart full of food into her room.
The room itself was fine, if not a bit boring. The windo
ws were covered in frills and lace. The sheets on the bed were cream colored silk with a blue and pink floral pattern. The furniture appeared antique. Certainly not Clarissa's taste. But the view… She could get lost for hours in that view. And that was a good thing, because she had plenty of hours to kill.
She sat in a high back chair, staring out the window at the Eiffel Tower and wishing she had a pair of binoculars so she could check out the tourists clinging to the railing at the top, taking in the city from hundreds of feet in the air. On the window sill sat a foot long replica of the famous tower. She picked it up. It was heavy, made from silver, stamped .925 on the bottom. She twirled the mini tower in her hand while watching the line of people snake around the real one, waiting to see the monument.
A thump on her door shook her from her thoughts.
She hopped out of her chair, crept to the door, peered through the peephole. She saw the back of one of the guards and someone who looked like Charles in the middle of the hallway. She shuffled her feet to the wall so her toes couldn't be seen under the door and pressed her ear to the door in an attempt to listen in on their conversation.
"You can't go in," she heard the guard say.
"Like hell I can't," Charles said.
"Orders from the old man. No one enters this room."
"Get out of my way or," Charles paused and she heard the sound of cracking knuckles, "I'll break your friggin’ neck."
"Maurice, go get the old man," the guard said to his partner.
"Like hell you will."
She heard a smacking sound followed by a thud on the wall. Clarissa rose up and put her eye to the peephole again. She could see Charles, one arm back ready to punch, the other arm attached to neck of the guard she knew as Jerry. She watched as Charles slammed his large fist into Jerry's face. The guard's head snapped back, blood splattered across the peephole.
Clarissa scrambled to barricade the door. She raced to the other end of the room and started to drag the chair she had been sitting in moments ago. Her plan was to pin the chair under the door handle, which would prevent Charles from getting in.
Click.
The distinctive sound of the door unlocking.
Clarissa froze. The door opened. Charles's large frame filled up most of the doorway. He smiled at her.
"Remember me?" he asked.
Clarissa backed into the corner between the nightstand and the window.
"Ah, now don't be like that," he said while holding his hand out to her.
She glanced around for something, anything that she could use to defend herself with. She still bore the wounds from their first meeting and would rather not add to the tally.
"We took out everything you could use to defend yourself. So don't bother."
Almost everything.
Clarissa shot a quick look toward the lamp on the nightstand.
Charles watched her and laughed. "What are you going to do with that?"
Clarissa inched closer to the lamp.
"You know what? You want to hit me with that lamp? I'm gonna give it to you." Charles bent over, dropped his head down. "Go ahead, take your best friggin’ shot."
She thought it through. He'd be ready for the shot to the back of the head and it probably wouldn't even faze him. She looked over at the window, out at the Eiffel tower again. If this was it, she would at least go out with a beautiful memory. Her eyes shifted to the mini tower made of silver. He wouldn't be expecting that.
She stepped to the left, but angled her body to the right toward the window sill. Scooped up the replica Eiffel Tower and adjusted it in her right hand. She leaned left and let the momentum carry her through as she spun around on her heel. Her arm made a magnificent backward loop. Full circle it went as she stepped into a lunge. The point of the tower was the first thing to pass by her hip, her arm followed in an upward arc.
Charles had no idea what hit him as Clarissa buried the heavy silver Eiffel Tower replica into his face.
She didn't wait around to see how much damage she had done. His scream was enough to tell her that he would be permanently disfigured, more so than he already was. She leapt on the bed, used the spring of her step to propel her to the door, out into the hall, stepping over the bodies of the unconscious guards. A crowd of old people had gathered by the elevator. They pointed and whispered among themselves. For a moment Clarissa thought of running to them, begging them to hide her. But the elevator dinged, and the crowd disappeared behind the solid doors.
Clarissa banged on the old man's door. He took ages to open it. Meanwhile she could hear Charles getting closer. Judging by his grunts and the sound of his body crashing into the walls, he seemed to be stumbling around. She banged on the door again, urgently. This time the old man muttered something, but she couldn't make it out. She hit the door even harder and kicked at it.
"You bitch," Charles said in a low, guttural voice.
She looked over and down. He was on his stomach, pulling himself through the doorway with his hands. He stopped and rolled over so he could look up at her. She put her hand to her mouth at the sight of him. Thought for a moment she might lose her lunch. She had hit him good all right. Directly under his left eye. All that was left of his cheek was a bloody hole.
He propped himself up on his elbows, got his knees under him and used the wall to slowly stand up.
"Please," she shouted at the door.
Charles staggered toward her. He had fifteen feet to close between the two of them.
Clarissa decided she would run when he got to five.
He stopped and leaned his body against the wall. "I'm...going to kill...you."
She made one last effort toward the door, banging, kicking and screaming.
The door popped open.
"What are you doing in the hall, girl?"
"Help," she said through tears.
The old man stuck his head out the door and saw Charles standing there, blood dripping from his face. "What the hell is going on?"
"He broke in, tried to attack me, I hit him."
The old man pulled Clarissa into the room and shut the door. "Go sit in the corner. I'll straighten this out."
He disappeared through the door. She picked her legs up off the floor, pulled her knees to her chest and buried her head between them. She knew he'd kill her when he came back in. Or worse, he'd let Charles take her back to his room to do whatever he wanted and then kill her.
Minutes passed. The door opened and the old man came in alone. He took his time walking toward her, sat down in the chair across from her. He held his hands up and interlaced his fingers in front of his chest.
"Mr. Charles will be ok," the old man said. "One of the guards had come to and informed me that he was attacked by Mr. Charles. We were able to revive the other guard. They have escorted Mr. Charles to the infirmary to have his face taken care of. As for you, I haven't decided what to do with you. I don't think you are safe here, so I'll need to find a place to store you for a few days."
Store her, like an old sweater. Is that really what he thought of her?
"If it were not for the fact that I need you as a bargaining chip with Mr. Jack, you would be dead right now. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
The old man leaned in, just inches from her face. "Further outbursts will not be tolerated." With that, he got up and left the room.
6
Jack awoke to the sound of his cell phone ringing. The reddish light of the setting sun filtered through the window, turning the drab walls pink. He looked on the nightstand for his watch. How long had he been asleep? Unable to find his watch, he grabbed his cell and answered it.
"Yeah?"
"It's Pierre."
"Yeah, what do you have for me?"
"After an eventful afternoon, I have gathered some previous intelligence. It seems our friend enjoys casual dining. In fact he enjoys it so much he eats at the same place every day at the same time."
"You're kidding." Jack rotated his head in a circl
e trying to loosen up his neck.
"I know the place. We can scout it tomorrow."
"Sounds good to me."
"Do you have plans this evening?"
"Think I'm just going to stay in. No point in going out and getting into trouble."
"Ah, probably a good idea, Jack."
"Pierre?"
"Yes."
"You said eventful. What else happened today?" Jack asked.
"Ah," Pierre paused and cleared his throat. "Let's just say there are two less thugs in Paris tonight."
"Gotcha." Jack decided he didn’t want to know any more. "Call me first thing in the morning."
He tossed his phone on the bed, stood up, stretched. He found himself a bit surprised he had slept so long. Not enough time between now and Thursday to waste hours like this. It would be a good idea to go out and start scouting some locations for the exchange. Besides, there had to be something to do on a Monday night in Paris. Right?
He went into the bathroom to wash up. He stared at his face in the mirror. When the hell did those lines start etching themselves into his forehead? And those crow's feet, where did they come from? Jack shook his head and splashed water on his face. Felt the sharpness of his three day old stubble and decided he would leave his face unshaven for a while. Maybe grow a beard. He smiled at his reflection. He had always been a master at distracting his mind with dumb thoughts like that in the middle of a crisis. Finally, he splashed a handful of water on his brown hair and combed it back.
The light on his phone flashed red. A message waiting.
"Jack, its Bear. Ran into some trouble in San Diego. Turns out our friend sent a welcoming party. Don't worry, Mandy is OK. I'm OK. Heading north. Watch your back."
Jack sat on the edge of the bed and thought about the message. He would have to watch his back. Things were coming to a head with Charles and the old man and the situation would play itself out soon. Hopefully not in Paris, though. Still, the news that the old man sent a team to San Diego troubled Jack. Wasting resources was not in the old man's bag of tricks. This reeked of an act ordered by Charles without the old man's permission. Jack feared that Charles was going to make a power play.