Rule: Paris Mob Book Three

by St. James, Michelle

  “It’s already loaded.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to point to the safety. “If it comes to it, remove the safety and squeeze the trigger. Take your time, hold your arm steady, be prepared for the recoil.”

  She drew a deep shuddering breath. “How will I know if it comes to it?”

  “You’ll know,” he said.

  He pressed the gas, trying to put more distance between them and the Humvee as Charlotte tried to get used to the weight of the weapon in her hand. But the Humvee was too fast, too powerful, and it caught up to them in seconds, pulling alongside the car next to Julien.

  “Should I use my cell phone to call Christophe?” Charlotte shouted over the noise of the two engines.

  “No time,” Julien said as the Humvee veered into them, intentionally nudging them closer to the side of the dirt road.

  Charlotte braced herself against the dash, and Julien turned the wheel sharply to the left, setting them back on course after the brief wobble of the car. Charlotte looked past him just in time to see the window retract on the passenger side of the Humvee. A masked face appeared in its opening, and then the unmistakable glint of a gun.

  “Gun!” she shouted.

  “Get down!”

  The words had barely left Julien’s mouth when a gunshot cracked through the air. It was followed by the thunk of a bullet finding its mark somewhere in the Rover’s frame, then another crash as the Humvee knocked into the driver’s side. This time Julien wasn’t able to recover, and the Rover slid off the road, tipping precariously in the air in the moment before it rolled over onto the dried brush on the side of the road.

  After that everything happened in slow motion.

  The painstaking turn of the world around her as the vehicle rolled.

  The crunch of metal folding in on itself.

  The crunch of glass as the tempered windshield cracked, then broke.

  They landed upside down, the Rover rocking back and forth as it settled into place. She blinked, trying to take stock of her body, to make sure she could feel everything. It was all there, and she looked over at Julien, a cut leaking blood across his face, a red stain seeping through his shirt on his torso.

  He looked at her. “Stay… here. Keep the gun.”

  She looked at her hand, surprised to find that she was still gripping the weapon. She didn’t have time to reply before he braced himself against the ceiling of the car and unbuckled his seatbelt. He folded sideways with a grunt, then tried to right himself, gun in hand, as he crawled from the vehicle.

  Charlotte mimicked his movements, using her hands to keep her head from hitting the roof as she unbuckled her seatbelt. She didn’t know what was coming, but she wasn’t going to be any help to him hanging upside down.

  It took her a moment to right herself inside the car’s twisted metal carcass. When she was finally upright, she heard the sound of car doors closing nearby, footsteps moving slowly toward them across the brush.

  Julien raised his hand and two gunshots immediately followed. She was trying to see around him, trying to determine where they’d come from, when the sound of gunfire cracked through the air again. He fell onto the ground, sprawled out on his stomach. An arm clad in black fell across her line of vision near Julien’s body.

  The other man? Had Julien hit him on his way down?

  But there was still one man left. His footsteps came to a stop near Julien’s head, and Charlotte covered her mouth, uttering soundless and meaningless words of prayer to anyone who would listen.

  But it wasn’t going to be so easy. She saw the man raise his arm in shadow, saw the dark silhouette of it in the moment before he fired into Julien’s head.

  She stifled a sob.

  How will I know if it comes to it?

  You’ll know.

  She fumbled with the gun as the footsteps made their way around the car. She would have to move fast, would have to fire the moment he came into view.

  Remove the safety and squeeze the trigger. Take your time, hold your arm steady, be prepared for the recoil.

  Her arm shook as she aimed the gun through the windowless opening of the Rover, the footsteps coming closer, slowly, like her predator knew there was nowhere to go.

  And he was right. She didn’t have anywhere to go. But she could do something he didn’t expect.

  She could fight.

  Remove the safety and squeeze the trigger. Take your time, hold your arm steady, be prepared for the recoil.

  Black boots came into view through the shattered rear window, then around to the back of the car. Then he was right in front of her. The boots only inches away from her crouched body.

  She removed the safety, settled her finger on the trigger.

  His legs bent into a crouch, and then his face was there, right on the other side of the window frame. She squeezed, careful to hold her arms steady like Julien had told her, bracing her body for the impact.

  She’d been aiming for the center of his forehead. Instead a small hole opened up above his right eye, near his scalp. He fell backwards, the sound of his body hitting the dried grass surprisingly loud in the ensuing silence.

  She was frozen in place, her arm shaking but still raised in the firing position. She held still, listening for any sign of someone else.

  But it was quiet, the wind moving through the long grass the only sound that carried across the field.

  She crawled from the wreckage of the Rover, her eyes on the fallen man, half-expecting him to rise up and fire at her. But he stayed down, and when she was finally free of the car she saw that his eyes were wide, staring unseeing at the blue, blue sky.

  She stumbled around the car to Julien, fell into the ground next to him, felt for a pulse at his neck. Felt again. Tried a third time.

  Then she lowered her head to his body and wept.

  30

  “How is she?” Farrell asked as Christophe stepped into the study.

  “Asleep finally,” Christophe said.

  He could barely utter the words through the storm of emotions brewing in his body. It was his fault that Julien was dead. That Charlotte had nearly been killed. Julien had been tasked with Christophe’s protection, but it had been up to Christophe to insure that he didn’t needlessly put Julien in danger.

  Now he was dead.

  He was barely aware of lifting his hand and striking the wall. Barely felt the impact of the plaster giving way under his fist.

  A hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he turned his head to see Nico standing at his side with a tumbler full of what looked like bourbon.

  He took it, drank it all at once.

  He turned to Farrell. “I’m sorry for the wall.”

  “Fuck the wall,” Farrell said.

  “Do we need to move the women?” he asked, trying to turn his attention to something practical. Something beyond the arrangements for Julien’s body. Beyond the fear of what had almost happened to Charlotte and the gratitude for his friend who had sacrificed his life to keep her safe.

  “I don’t think so,” Farrell said. “There’s a reason they were picked off outside the compound. Donati knows he can’t breach this place without an army, and he’s already low on resources. They just got lucky tailing the Rover outside the gates.”

  “That wasn’t luck,” Christophe said bitterly.

  Nico slapped him on the back. “Direct that rage where it belongs — at Raneiro. No one will be safe until he’s out of the picture.”

  “There’s no way we can arrange for an alternate location for the women and children on such short notice,” Luca said. “Not one that’s this secure. We’re better off battening down the hatches here. Beefing up security where we can.”

  “Leo’s talking to the guards, making sure they’re on alert. I can call in a few more men,” Farrell said. “Although I think the fact that Donati’s men didn’t try to breach the perimeter says something about its security.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Nico said.

  “
Who’s dealing with local law enforcement?” Christophe heard himself ask the question from a distance. He’d tried to shut down the part of his brain that was raging, but it was still in the background, screaming for release. Focusing on something else was the only hope he had of keeping it together.

  “I am,” Farrell said. “along with Carolina Barone, who has called in her sources inside the Florence PD to mitigate the questions being asked.”

  “What’s the story?” Nico asked.

  “Mistaken identity,” Farrell said. “Drug deal gone bad. Charlotte was never there.”

  “I’m not having Julien associated with a drug deal,” Christophe said.

  “That’s the mistaken identity part,” Farrell said. “To anyone who asks, Julien was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Christophe nodded. He didn’t know Julien’s family well, but he’d met his mother once and his sister a handful of times, and he didn’t want anything coloring their memory of Julien. He’d been a good man, an honorable one. That was how he would be remembered, and while Christophe knew Julien had made provisions for his family in the event of his death — that was SOP for any of his men — Christophe vowed to add to the coffers. It would be cold comfort in the face of their loss, but it was all he could do.

  “What do we do now?” Luca asked.

  Nico leaned against Farrell’s desk. “It’s looking like New York.”

  “Raneiro’s there?” Christophe asked. He didn’t think he could want Raneiro’s head more than he did after the fire at Edgar Duval’s store. Now he wanted the other man decimated, torn limb from limb while Christophe watched.

  “It sounds that way,” Nico said. “Just waiting for confirmation.”

  “Do we know where he’s holed up?” Luca asked.

  Nico shook his head. “Not yet. But I might know his next target. I should have confirmation in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Fuck,” Farrell said. “I don’t have a single relationship in New York outside of Luca. There’s no place to stage an operation there.”

  Christophe looked at Luca. “You live in New York. Is there anyone who will help us?”

  “There is one person,” Nico said.

  “You have someone in one of the new organizations there?” Luca asked, obviously surprised.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Nico’s voice was dry. “I was thinking of another organization. The FBI to be exact.”

  “Braden Kane?” Farrell asked.

  Nico shrugged. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Not really,” Farrell said. “It just seems like Kane might want to give Donati a wide berth. They just cut him loose.”

  “I think the opposite is true,” Nico said.

  “What makes you say that?” Christophe asked.

  “Just a feeling.” The words were cryptic, but there was something knowing in his eyes, and Christophe couldn’t help wondering if Nico had been in touch with the FBI agent who had cut him the deal that enabled him to escape the Syndicate with Angel.

  Luca sighed. “We’re not exactly in a position to be choosy.”

  “Kane is no second-rate source,” Nico said. “He’s the best, and he might give us the added advantage of some much-needed intel.”

  “I know,” Luca said. “I just don’t trust the Feds,”

  “Kane is no ordinary Fed,” Farrell said. “He saved my ass when Jenna and I were on the run, and he helped Leo when he had that problem in Algeria.”

  Christophe nodded. “Can you contact him? Put out feelers?”

  Nico nodded.

  “Good,” Christophe said. “We’ll do what we can here and hope Kane gives us a place to work in New York.”

  “If I’m right, we’re running out of time,” Nico said. “We have to be ready to move.”

  Christophe clenched his fists, relished the pain of his still-damaged fingers. It was a reminder of what Raneiro had done to him. What he’d done to Charlotte. What he’d done to Julien.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  31

  Charlotte opened her eyes, Christophe coming into focus as she slowly came awake. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and for a moment she thought the blue light in the room indicated that it was morning. She groped the edges of her cloudy mind for a date. The truth came slamming into her all at once.

  The race through the countryside with Julien.

  The crunch of metal as the world turned upside down.

  The seep of blood through Julien’s shirt.

  She put a hand over her eyes as tears leaked from their corners, then turned her face away from Christophe.

  “I’m sorry,” she croaked.

  “Sorry?” He touched her face, turned it back toward him. “Sorry for what?”

  “It’s my fault.” She sat up, hugged her knees. “He took me into town because I wanted to get off the property. Because I couldn’t do the one thing I was asked to do and stay put.” She buried her face in her knees as the tears came, guilt and shame wracking her body.

  She felt his hand on her head, the long stroke of it over her hair. “Look at me, Charlotte.”

  She didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want him to see Julien’s death in her eyes. But she couldn’t hide from this. She’d done it. She would have to face it.

  She turned her face toward him.

  “This was not your fault.” He shook his head, ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s mine.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked. “He drove me. He was with me.”

  “He wanted to take you,” Christophe said. “It was his idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were in the study making plans. He saw you walking the property, felt bad that you were cooped up here. It was his idea to take you into town. I should have refused.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Charlotte said. “If I hadn’t been walking… if I’d been in the kitchen with everyone else, or out on the terrace… if I’d just been able to appreciate being here…”

  He wiped a tear from her cheek. “He was one of my men. My best friend. His safety was my responsibility. I should have said no.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, the weight of everything that had happened heavy between them. How did people recover from so much death and destruction? Would it even be possible to go on if they managed to stop Raneiro? Would it be possible to forget all the loss and sadness that had marked their relationship since the moment it began?

  “I have a feeling Julien wasn’t the kind of man to take no for an answer,” she finally said.

  She didn’t know if he believed it, but he nodded. “You are right about that.”

  “What will happen to him?” she asked.

  “It looks like I”ll be going to New York in a couple of days. I’ll accompany his body back to Paris, see that arrangements are made with his family.”

  Her heart sank as she thought of his mother and sister, the old house that had burned down in his childhood.

  He leaned in, touched his forehead to hers. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  She touched the cut near her hairline. It had been bleeding profusely when Christophe and Farrell arrived at the scene of the shooting, but she hadn’t felt a thing. Now she realized it was tender, and she winced as she pulled her hand away.

  “A little beat-up but none the worse for wear.”

  He took her hands, looked down at his battered fingers. “We’re quite a pair.”

  She tried to smile. “I think so.”

  “How bad will it be?” she asked. “In New York?”

  He seemed to hesitate, and she wondered if he would lie. If he would tell her everything was going to be fine when they both knew there was no way to know that for sure.

  “I don’t know yet,” he said. “I might not know until we get there. But it doesn’t matter. There’s no other way.”

  She thought of Julien, dead by the side of the road for the crime of trying to help her.

 
; Her father, the legacy he’d built piece by painstaking piece his whole life through. A legacy that had been turned to ash by Raneiro Donati.

  The beautiful Anna Muller at the gallery in Vienna, dead at the hands of Raneiro’s men for giving Charlotte information about the cross.

  She slipped her hand into the hair at the back of his head. “Do what you must.”

  32

  Charlotte looked at her reflection in the mirror, trying to decide if she looked different. The prior day’s events still seemed surreal. Was it really only a day ago that Julien had still been alive? That he’d greeted her in the kitchen over coffee with his now-familiar smile? That she’d decided to walk the property to cure herself of the cabin fever that had set in like a bad case of the flu?

  It had only been a day, and a world in which Julien was alive already seemed both too far away and painfully close.

  The children were laughing on the lawn, the low buzz of conversation coming from the kitchen. Christophe had risen early, kissing her on the forehead with instructions to sleep as long as she liked.

  And she did want to sleep. She wanted to sleep and sleep. She wanted to wake up when it was all over. When Christophe and the other men were back from New York, safe and having conquered Raneiro Donati once and for all.

  But she couldn’t hide. Not from what she’d done and not from what was to come. Angel and Jenna and Isabel were somewhere in the house, worried about their men and trying to keep it together for the children. Charlotte owed them her solidarity.

  She showered and dressed, then left her room and headed for the kitchen. Her stomach was knotted with nerves. Would the other women blame her for what had happened to Julien? Would they see her as foolish and immature for taking the chance that hadn’t seemed at all like a risk when she and Julien had laughingly headed for the Rover?

  She made her way down the first floor hall, pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. Jenna was pouring coffee while Isabel buttered toast. Mrs. Pendleton sat in a chair opposite Lily, pulling lace-trimmed socks up over her consummately bare feet. Angel was dancing the baby on her hip around the kitchen, turning in circles as Stella’s giggles filled the room. She was still standing there when Jenna turned around.