“Kit, get down!” she commanded.
“What?” he said, looking around but not moving.
“They’re on the train,” she hissed, hauling him down onto the floor.
“Where?” he asked, trying to stick his head up and look around.
“About four cars back,” she said, maintaining a firm grip on his collar. “And heading our way.”
“Did they see us?”
“Don’t know,” Nikki answered tersely. “We’ll get off at the next stop.”
“Do we know what the next stop is?”
“Gare du Nord,” answered Nikki, shoving him to the front of the car.
The train slid into Gare du Nord, and even at this hour the international train station was liberally populated. Nikki held Kit tight, waiting to get off the train until it was almost chugging away from the platform. The two men entered their compartment, and Nikki and Kit dashed through the doors just as they slid closed.
“Up the escalator,” Nikki yelled to Kit, who was leading. They ran up the moving stairs, jostling late-night travelers and arriving on the main level out of breath and disoriented.
“Did we leave them on the train?” he demanded, looking down the escalator.
“I doubt it,” answered Nikki, leading them past the lines of trains. The cold night air circulated through the enormous vaulted space, hinting at snow. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to find the nearest gendarme, tell them you’re an international rock star and you need protection from some crazed psycho in the subway.”
“Um … Can we not?”
“People are shooting at you, Kit.”
“And I’d rather not have that on the front page of the Star.”
“You’d rather have ‘Kit Masters Dies in Mysterious Metro Shooting’?”
“Can’t we just get a cab and go back to the hotel?”
Nikki looked to the exit and saw a black-clad man standing dead center, talking on a cell phone; his head swiveled back and forth as if searching for something.
“I don’t think so,” said Nikki, tugging Kit away.
“What’d these guys do?” whined Kit as they hid behind a reader board of train times. “Get a special at the all-black clothing store?”
A train arrived with a screeching of brakes and disgorged a flock of weary-looking passengers. Ducking behind a tall man with a red beard, Kit and Nikki walked toward the exit.
“I’m just a tourist, nothing special about me; I’m just walking here,” muttered Kit as they walked, drawing strange looks from the train passengers.
The crowd passed through the entryway, past the man in black, and began to descend the shallow steps toward the street. They were nearly away when they heard a shout from behind them.
“Don’t look back,” commanded Nikki, “just keep walking.” They picked up speed, trying for the title of Most Casual Hundred-Yard Dashers.
“Hey,” called someone from behind them, and Nikki whirled around at the sound of running feet. A girl of about sixteen was running straight toward them, her friend trailing a bit behind.
“Hey, you’re Kit Masters, aren’t you? You are, aren’t you? Oh my God! I can’t believe it’s Kit Masters!” She jumped up and down excitedly, clapping her hands. Behind her Nikki could see three men in black converging on them. Apparently, they hadn’t left the two on the train after all.
“Yes, he is. Do you want his autograph?” Nikki asked. Kit’s expression managed to be both disgusted and amazed at the same time.
“Oh my God! That would be brilliant! Oh wait! Wait. I have my camera.” The girl searched frantically through her bag. “Liz,” she said, turning to her friend who’d just arrived, toting a backpack and looking slightly out of breath. “Do you have my camera?” Liz was staring at Kit openmouthed. “Camera, Liz?” Liz closed her mouth and shook her head, then, jerking one arm out straight, she pointed toward the street. “My boyfriend has my camera. I mean, he’s not really my boyfriend, we can see other people,” said the girl fanatically.
The men in black were within twenty feet now, hanging back, waiting for the teenagers to leave; the two from the train had their ski masks rolled up on their heads.
“That’s OK!” said Nikki genially. “We’ll go over there.” She could hear Kit’s teeth grinding.
They all followed the friend’s signpost finger toward where two motorcycles were parked curbside with two glowering young men.
“Brandon!” screeched the girl, running ahead, leaving them with the uncomfortably smiling Liz. “Brandon, get out my camera! It’s Kit Masters.”
Brandon’s dour expression didn’t change. But Liz’s young man stepped forward eagerly.
“Kit Masters! Wow! I have all your albums. I even have the @last albums. I must have listened to ‘Sub-Zero Fire’ about fifty billion times. This is so brilliant!” The kid pumped Kit’s hand up and down.
“Thanks,” said Kit with an awkward smile.
“And your new album, Devil’s Kit? Awesome!”
“That’s Dean,” said the first girl dismissively. “He’s Liz’s SO. I’m Sara and this is Brandon.” Brandon gave a careless wave as if Kit was the last thing of importance. Brandon was clearly far too mature to be impressed by a mere rock star.
“Great,” said Kit.
Nikki stole a quick glance behind them. The three men had fanned out, covering them from all angles.
“That’s a nice bike,” said Nikki, looking speculatively at Brandon’s motorcycle. It was a small, smooth check mark of liquid orange over a V-twin engine. The passenger seat was an afterthought, the fairing nonexistent, and the windshield tiny.
“It’s a Buell,” said Brandon proudly, his face lighting up.
“Yeah, the Harley-Davidson sport bike, right?”
“Yeah!” said Brandon, falling in love.
“Vance and Hines after-market muffler. You wrapped the pipes.”
“I think it looks cool.” Then he said with more honesty, “Plus, I tipped it and scuffed the pipes.” Nikki nodded. The wrapping gave the bike a slightly Mad Max effect; it wasn’t a bad solution. But her attention was on the two men she could see in the bike’s rearview mirrors. She flicked her glance upward and spotted the third and largest edging closer to their position.
“How’s it run? I heard the Buells tend to be temperamental.”
“No, it runs great. Totally keeps up with Dean-o’s Triumph.” Nikki sized up Dean-o’s black Triumph SLR; it looked a little more passenger-friendly.
“It’s a great bike, really runs good,” said Brandon, putting the key in the ignition, preparing to prove his statement.
“Who cares about motorcycles?” interrupted Sara, pouting. “We’ve got a rock star here! I found my camera.” She snapped a picture to prove it, and everyone blinked in the flash.
“Great,” said Nikki. “What if we get a picture on the bike?”
“Yeah,” said Brandon, perking up, “that would be cool!”
“You can sit on my bike, Kit!” said Dean, chiming in.
“Sure,” said Kit, glancing at Nikki. She jerked her chin in a minute nod, just as the big man in black pushed through Liz and Sara, reaching for Kit. Nikki grabbed the man by his shoulders, yanking him back as he reached for Kit. The man leaned forward, trailing his arms, and dove out of Nikki’s grasp, leaving her holding his coat. Liz and Sara screamed. Kit turned around and swung a punch into the man’s gut; the big guy ate it like a hamburger and bounced it back like a burp. Kit recoiled, shaking his hand. From behind, Nikki tossed the coat over his head and hauled down. His hands scrabbled at his coat, trying to scrape it away from his face. Nikki pulled harder; he teetered for a moment, on the edge of falling backward, on the edge of recovery.
“Hi-yah!” yelled Liz, and kicked the man in the chest. He went down with a thump that shook the cobblestones.
“Hey!” yelled the second man, reaching into his jacket.
“Kit!” yelled Nikki, tossing the jacket aside and jumping
on the Buell. Brandon hadn’t lied. The orange bike started on the first try, sputtering to life with the familiar loud growl of a Harley-Davidson. Kit was barely on the back when Nikki twisted the throttle and roared into the night.
“They took Dean’s bike!” Kit yelled into her ear, twisting around to look behind them. Nikki glanced in the mirrors and saw the bug-eyed dual headlights of the Triumph behind them and farther back Liz, Sara, Brandon, and Dean, standing in the street yelling.
Nikki took a quick right and then a left, cutting between the blocks, swooping around the errantly parked cars. The Triumph kept pace with them, dogging their every move, never more than a block or two behind.
They were heading steadily uphill, and, between the houses, the sacred heart of Paris was revealed at each break in the skyline. The Church of the Sacré-Coeur stood at the top of the hill overlooking the Pigalle district and the denizens of its porn shops, prostitutes, and nightclubs with the saddened dignity of an old man looking over a disappointing family. Nikki set her course by the white church, trying to lose the Triumph in the twisting back streets. The winding roads led her to the carousel that lived at the foot of the stairs leading up to Sacré-Coeur. The higher-pitched hum of the Triumph’s motor echoed somewhere below them, cruising the small shops that had been shuttered for the night.
“Off,” she told Kit.
“What are we doing?” asked Kit, getting off as commanded. “They’re still down there!”
“I know,” answered Nikki, gunning the engine. “I’ll be right back.”
She rode toward the sound of the Triumph, homing in on the sound. The Triumph returned the favor, working its way up toward her. When they were too close for comfort Nikki flipped a U-turn and rode back toward the carousel, pulling the black bike with her.
When the carousel and Kit appeared in her headlights, she slid the bike to a stop, wearing a few millimeters off the sole of her boot as she yanked the bike ninety degrees to point its nose down the hill. This had to be timed just right. Kit stepped forward to ask her something, but she pulled away and began her descent. She kept the brakes on, not allowing too much speed, but at the halfway point, she hit the brakes hard. This was going to hurt. She swung her leg over, riding standing up, one leg dangling, one on the foot peg. Then she stepped off the bike. Her feet were under her for a second, and then the speed caught up with her and she went down, tucking her chin as she rolled. She sat up just in time to see the orange Buell T-bone the black Triumph. A few seconds later, Kit came running down the hill.
“Nikki!” he yelled, scanning the wreckage.
“Over here,” said Nikki, sitting up on her elbows.
“Jesus, Nikki. Are you insane?” Nikki tried to stand up as Kit reached out a helping hand. She thought about checking on the rider but changed her mind.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” she said, limping a little as she led them southwest away from the wreck, aiming for a main street.
“You could have been killed!” he exclaimed after a few blocks, as if it had struck him afresh.
“Actually, I think I’m getting better.”
“Better at what?” he asked with a disbelieving stare.
“Crashing, mostly.” They approached an intersection, and she scanned the corners of the buildings, looking for street signs. “We need to find someplace to hole up for a few hours.”
“I think I’ve been here before,” said Kit, looking around. “There’s a hotel here somewhere.”
Nikki surveyed the surroundings. The Pigalle district, far from the fashionable tourist areas, sported a patina of grime and bitterness that would probably last longer than the winter. It didn’t seem like the kind of area that would have a hotel where a rock star would stay.
“Yeah, it was on Rue des Abbesses. I remember thinking it was a good joke I was getting laid on a street named after nuns.” Nikki raised an eyebrow, and Kit shrugged. “I was high at the time,” he said. It was Nikki’s turn to shrug. “It’s just down here. I think.” He frowned.
“Well, your guess sounds better than mine,” said Nikki. “Lead the way.”
It began to snow as they walked: huge fluffy flakes that melted at first but then accumulated on windowsills. Nikki brushed them from her hair, feeling the wet and cold start to seep in, knowing she’d be black and blue tomorrow.
“There it is!” exclaimed Kit. “I can’t believe I actually found it.”
The hotel was marked by a single, navy-blue, vertical banner that was lost between the neon-lit signs of two sex shops and a pharmacy.
Tromping into the lobby, Kit slammed his hand down on the bell, waking the desk clerk.
“Bonsoir, monsieur,” said Kit. “We would like a room.”
PARIS VIII
I Need TV When I Got T. Rex
Nikki flipped the lock on the hotel room door and did a quick sweep of the room. Outside the window a neon green pharmacy cross dimly illuminated the flurries of snow.
“Why didn’t we go back to our hotel?” asked Kit, dropping tiredly into one of the narrow armchairs near the window.
“They’ll be watching the hotel,” said Nikki, closing the drapes behind him before turning on a light.
“They were shooting at me,” said Kit as if he’d only just now noticed.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “We’ll call Duncan in the morning and go straight from here to the airport.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I’ve got a concert.”
“Kit, someone’s trying to kill you. Now is not the time to worry about some concert. You didn’t even want to do the concert two days ago.”
“People paid money to see me,” he said miserably. “I’m going to be seen. I may not always like my job, but I get paid very well to do it. It’s time I stopped behaving like a spoiled brat and actually do the things I say I’m going to do. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Now you’re going to listen to me?”
“I have a job to do, and some thug in a ski mask isn’t going to scare me away from doing it. Why would someone attack me anyway?” he asked plaintively.
“I don’t suppose you left any outstanding debts or anything when you went into rehab?” asked Nikki. She didn’t really think it was true, but it might as well be crossed off the list.
“No, I bloody well didn’t!” he shouted. “Besides,” he said, visibly controlling his voice, “maybe they were after you. You seem a little overly capable in the bad-guy department—seems like you’ve had experience.”
“Yeeeeah,” said Nikki, hesitating. “Here’s the thing. Your mom and I work for the same company.”
“Carrie Mae, so what?”
“Well, have you ever noticed that your mom’s gone a lot? Ever noticed any unusual skills in unarmed combat? Excessive interest in firearms?”
Kit’s eyes narrowed. “Mom always had a gun when I was growing up. But what are you trying to say? Carrie Mae’s just the front for some international terrorist organization?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” exclaimed Nikki. “Carrie Mae is dedicated to helping women everywhere. It’s just that sometimes helping requires a little extra …” She hesitated, looking for the right words. Why hadn’t she ever had this conversation with Z’ev? “Firepower,” she said at last. “Camille and I are with the, uh … security division of Carrie Mae. We deal with some of the more dangerous situations faced by our ladies.”
“Trista judo-flipped this fan who got too close one time,” said Kit. “What about her?”
“She’s retired,” said Nikki.
“My mom pushed me really hard to hire her,” said Kit. “It seemed weird at the time.”
“Well, she was worried about you. She wanted you to have someone you could rely on.”
“Or she could rely on,” said Kit bitterly. “Trista’s probably been spying on me for her this whole time.”
“Trista loves you,” said Nikki firmly. “And I may not know yo
ur mom that well, but when she heard about Cano … she flipped out and wanted to come see you immediately.”
“Who’s Cano?” demanded Kit, and Nikki bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to say that bit.
“Well, your mom has made a few enemies along the way. It happens in our line of work. And Cano is one of them; he escaped from prison.”
“You think he’s trying to kill me because of Mum?” asked Kit, and Nikki nodded.
“That’s why you’re here. I should have known,” he said, laughing bitterly. “I should have known you didn’t really care.”
“Hey,” said Nikki, grabbing him by the chin and forcing him to look at her. “I sang karaoke for you.”
He finally returned her gaze and Nikki felt her breath catch; his eyes were blue like sapphires. She swallowed hard and stood up, nearly turning over the chair, and went to the window. He began playing with his hair, twisting it into the devil’s points that Nikki had assumed were a stage affectation but was now realizing were a nervous habit.
“Are you bleeding?!” she demanded abruptly, noticing a suspicious stain spreading across the back of his shoulder.
“Oh shit,” said Kit, twisting around, like a dog chasing a tail, “I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot! Why didn’t you tell me I was shot?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” retorted Nikki. “Into the bathroom. Take off your shirt now.”
He stripped off his shirt and sweater and sat down on the toilet seat, looking white.
“It’s really starting to hurt now,” he said.
“Don’t be a sissy,” said Nikki severely, feeling her heartbeat speed up. She yanked the threadbare washcloth off the towel bar and placed it over the bleeding gouge on the back of Kit’s shoulder.
“Thanks for the sympathy,” he said, anger bringing a flush back to his face.
Gingerly, Nikki withdrew the washcloth to take a look at the damage. His shoulder was gouged, probably from a bullet or piece of shrapnel in the Metro, but it wasn’t deep. Nikki wet down the washcloth with warm water and began to clean the area.
Compact with the Devil: A Novel Page 23