by Seeley James
Pia’s panic level spiked and she nearly jumped. Philippe swore at her and waved them outside. Alphonse protested. Over their raised voices Pia heard a phone ring.
“Quiet!” She held her hand in the air.
Le Directeur’s phone was ringing somewhere in the hall beyond Philippe.
For a moment, Philippe and Alphonse stopped and stared at her. She listened to the ringing on her phone. A voice down the hall said, “Allo? Calixthe?” A second later, she heard the same words in her phone.
Her eyes locked on Philippe. The shirt, the bad color combination. The ANPSP logo. Philippe wanted to be a professional skier and the local ski patrol leader was Carla Villeneuve. Calixthe said he lived well but never had cash. Walcott called him soft.
Philippe’s eyes darted back and forth from Pia to Alphonse. He ran at Pia, his arms and legs flailing.
She turned, stepped into his rush, and jabbed her left fist twice into his Adam’s apple. He staggered backward and clutched his throat. She followed with a right cross that spun him around, then swept his foot out from under him and left him on the floor.
“He’s the other half.” Pia drew her gun. “Mustafa is down the hall.”
On cue, Mustafa Ahmadi ducked his head out of the drawing room. Pia and Alphonse dove into the foyer as he fired three shots. Bullets splintered the front door. Pia stuck her gun around the corner and heard Mustafa’s footsteps retreat. She stepped into the hall and aimed. No one there. She ran into the dimly lit main house, Alphonse close behind.
Double doors opened into a darkened drawing room. On the far side, a shadow slipped through a door to another room. Pia’s first dart hit the oak paneling. She slid laterally to her left, looking into the room before giving chase. Nothing. She pushed the door open with her foot. Behind her, Philippe Marot screamed something unintelligible. She stepped deeper into the drawing room and felt two ineffective fists hit her in the back.
She turned, saw Alphonse restraining the young man, thought about fairness and decided Philippe didn’t deserve any. She popped two more fast jabs. The first landed on Philippe’s cheek, turning his head to the right. The second connected the heel of her hand to his temple. Alphonse tossed him aside. She fired a dart without aiming, then chased into the library after Mustafa.
Several pieces of large furniture in the dim space offered a hundred hiding places. On a coffee table she saw Miguel’s phone, the back removed, an electronic connector sticking out of it. Mustafa was trying to jail-break it to locate Pia. Where was Miguel? Dead? With the Major, held somewhere by the river? She refocused and crept forward. Alphonse stepped in behind her. He picked up a lamp, stripped the shade, and wielded it like a bat.
“Gun?” Pia asked.
He shrugged and smiled. “Do you have an extra?”
She pursed her lips and stepped around a wingback chair, leading her eyes with her gun on outstretched arms, cleared the couch and relaxed her stance. Her problem would be in the next room.
“I will go first,” Alphonse said.
Pia shook her head and moved forward to the door. She consulted all her senses, hoping to feel Mustafa’s presence. Nothing.
Behind her, Philippe took flight. She saw the dart meant for him stuck in the floor. She’d missed. She fired as he ran and missed again. He disappeared around a corner.
Priority? The greater danger: Mustafa.
Pia threw herself into a roll that landed in the next room. Stopping on her knees, she leapt to her feet and looked around. A billiard room with a bar and stools at one end. A few blades of sunlight streamed through horizontal blinds beyond the bar. High contrast lighting that benefitted the killer. She approached the door, trying to sense anyone hidden in the room beyond. She moved to the billiard table, using it for cover. Alphonse joined her. She whispered to him, he nodded: the slate table would stop bullets. They put their backs under the table and rose up, pushing it over with a crash. Pia duck-walked to the left side to sneak a peek. Sweat rolled off her forehead and pooled in her palms. She wiped her hands on her pants and moved a little farther forward.
The sound of feet shuffled behind her. She dropped to the floor. Three gun blasts shattered the stillness of the room. Something thudded on the floor. She rolled back behind the billiard table. Nothing hurt. She rose to peer over the table leg. Philippe came to the doorway with an AK-47. Pia slid laterally to the side of the table and fired three times. He ducked back. Hearing no thud, she assumed they were all misses.
Then she saw Alphonse lying face up in the doorway. Blood poured from a hole in his head and two more in his chest.
“NO!” She lunged into the library and fired.
The wall beside her exploded in shards of wood chips. Mustafa was trying to shoot her through the wall, and there was nothing in the construction to stop a high-velocity round, making his tactic just as dangerous for Philippe. She dropped, landing an arm’s length from Alphonse’s body. His eyes stared upward.
Only Philippe could have fired the shots that killed him.
Her body turned cold. She felt no fear. Only anger.
She screamed and stood.
Careful with her few remaining darts, her aim moved from one door to the other. A shadow blocked the light behind her for a split second. She turned and aimed. Nothing there. Wheeling back around, she caught a glimpse of Philippe before he ducked into the drawing room.
Trapped.
Stumbling forward, she charged. Philippe stepped into the doorway, in her sights. She heard Mustafa moving somewhere behind her. She ducked. The wood frame over her head turned to sawdust in a hail of bullets.
He still fired like a movie-star.
“Put the gun down, bitch!” Mustafa Ahmadi called from the billiard room’s opposite doorway.
Pia didn’t move. “You’re not going to kill me?”
“We have a question.”
She couldn’t see Mustafa, which meant he had to be slightly off to one side, obstructed by the overturned billiard table. If he had a shot at all, it would be a very narrow angle. That’s why he hadn’t shot her yet—he wasn’t sure where she was in the dim light. She put her hands up, surrendering. Her Glock dangled from her thumb. Philippe took it.
“What’s your question?” Pia asked.
Her left foot slipped forward, toward Philippe and out of the doorway. Out of any possible line of fire from Mustafa. When he didn’t tell her to stop, she knew he couldn’t see her.
“Who did you talk to this morning?”
Pia felt the question like a punch in her gut. It was the same question the sick murderous bastard had asked the bankers. Each of them answered, and doing so signed the death warrant for the next banker. She wouldn’t have that on her conscience. Besides, the only person who knew the situation lay dead on the floor.
Tania, safe and sound outside, had no idea what was going on inside the thick stone walls of Maison Marot.
Mustafa was making his way around the billiard table and Philippe was holding a gun in her face. Pia resolved to keep her mouth shut no matter what they did to her.
Then Philippe gave her an opportunity. He said something to her in French, some kind of insult if the sneer on his face was any indicator.
Pia cocked her head.
“Speak English, Philippe.” She slid an inch closer. “Or do you trust your garçon to ask the questions?”
A real man would have maintained eye contact. Philippe’s eyes darted toward Mustafa’s last known position in the other room. They could hear Mustafa’s footsteps as he strode around the billiard table. They both knew he’d come through the doorway in ten steps and shoot Pia Sabel in the head. They also knew Philippe was in the line of fire and could potentially be a victim of his own assassin. Philippe blinked.
All the invitation she needed.
She exploded off her right leg, her left shoulder shoved the barrel of the gun up and out of the way. At the same time the heel of her hand snapped his head backward with tremendous force. Her left hook smashed his he
ad into the wall. Stunned for a second time, he pulled his trigger, his magazine emptied into the ceiling. As he collapsed on the floor she grabbed the gun barrel, smashed the gunstock into his face, and threw it across the room. Just to be sure, she kicked him in the head.
When the machine gun fired, she’d heard the thud of Mustafa dropping to the floor in the next room.
“Calixthe is in police custody in Vienna,” Pia called out. “I caught her and turned her over to police. I watched them question her. She knew you were here to cut her out and go straight to Philippe. That’s why she was blaming everything on you—Mustafa Ahmadi.”
Bullets streamed through the wooden wall next to her. She dropped to the floor and rolled under the piano. Philippe got to his knees, shaking his head. Pia saw her gun on the floor, scrambled for it, and darted him.
From Mustafa’s room she heard metallic clicks. Changing magazines. She had seconds before he reloaded.
Pia scrambled out and ran for the front door. She flew outside, leapt the steps, jumped in the car, and sped down the driveway, swerving as she drove.
Mustafa came to the door spraying bullets. She heard the trunk take several shots before the back window exploded. He forgot the muzzle climb of the machine gun. Most of his bullets went high.
Tania sat up in the back seat and looked around. She said, “What the hell? What happened? Where’s Alphonse? Hey! Pia, are you crying?”
Chapter 42
* * *
28-May, 11AM
Barely able to see the road in front of her, Pia followed Tania’s navigational instructions. The Major and Miguel still hadn’t answered their phones. Pia kept her foot on the gas. The tires squealed around corner after corner. They left Geneva’s nicer neighborhoods and found the road toward Chamonix.
Pia closed her eyes for a second only to see Alphonse’s eyes staring back.
In the back seat, Tania reloaded her pistol with hollow points. Less likely to penetrate body armor than a parabellum, but more stopping power per bullet. Tania refilled Pia’s Glock with darts and tossed it on the passenger seat.
“Alphonse had a hole right through his head,” Pia said. “The blood. And his eyes…”
“Eric was wrong about you—you handled the adrenaline just fine. Now you have to learn the other thing, dealing with death while you’re still at war. We finish the job first. Then we grieve. Just like we did with Ezra.” Tania paused. “Listen. We’re driving into a trap. We both know it. But we’re going to win here. We’re going to take her down. So, pull it together, Pia. I need you sharp and ready.”
“Oh god. All that shooting. It was…”
“You thought it was going to be easy. You thought you were going to run onto the field, kick the winning goal, and take a bow. Welcome to real life, Pia. The bad guys have the Major and Miguel. Somebody has to do something about that. Right now, it’s down to you and me.”
“You’re wounded. I don’t want anyone else dying. This—”
“You can’t stop me. And when we get this done, when we have Villeneuve and her little boy-toy in the morgue, don’t bother inviting me to the next mission briefing. I’m signing up right now. Anywhere you go, I go with you.”
Pia glanced into the backseat just long enough for their eyes to meet. She said, “Thanks, Tania.”
“Hey, keep your eyes on the road. We have to get there first.”
Pia’s phone rang. Lieutenant Marco Berardi of the Geneva gendarmerie identified himself. He said, “You were seen fleeing a crime scene. You shot officer Alphonse Lamartine and severely injured Philippe Marot. I urge you to stop this madness and turn yourself in. You cannot fight the entire police department.”
“Where’s your Capitaine Villeneuve, Berardi?”
“She is not my Capitaine. I work in a different group. Besides, she is off duty today. We are investigating the murders at Maison Marot. You will be better off if you turn yourself—”
“Philippe and his pal Mustafa aren’t there, are they? They called it in, right? Mustafa dragged him out. He’s cleaning the gunpowder residue off their hands.”
“Don’t worry about forensics, Ms. Sabel. Think about what you need to do. You need to turn yourself in. You can’t run forever. You can’t get far.”
“You’re right. Tell you what, meet me just past Le Bout-du-Monde, where the bridge crosses the River Arve. Off the left side.”
Berardi said nothing for a moment. Then, “Why there?”
Pia clicked off.
Tania racked her M4.
Pia turned onto a narrow street and the city’s quality declined around them. They passed a ragged amateur sports complex and apartments, crossed the bridge, and took a small side street into the river’s flood plain. Low-rent housing lined one side, trees and mud the other. One house had a broken window, the next was unpainted, the one after that abandoned. No more picturesque Geneva. She slowed to a crawl to examine every driveway and parking space. A rusty Citroën in one, the next two empty, a Fiat after that.
Pia’s phone rang again. She checked the caller ID: Villeneuve. She picked up, put it on speaker. “Carla, I know it was you. I have Philippe.”
A stream of French insults came through the line.
Pia looked at Tania, who shrugged.
“Capitaine, give the phone to Miguel. Um. Donnez le telephone to Miguel.”
Noises on the other end: Tromping on boards? She imagined pushes and tugs and tape peeling, heard grunts, a one-way conversation in French.
Miguel’s voice. “She surprised us. We’re bound in a base—”
A smack. Yelling.
Miguel said, “She wants you to turn yourself in for the murder of Alphonse Lamartine.”
“Tell her Berardi figured it out. He’s on his way to her location now.” She waited for the translation. “Tell her I’m coming to trade Philippe for you and the Major.”
After some background discussion, Miguel said, “She says Mustafa has Philippe. You’ll turn yourself over to her.”
“Mustafa lied, that’s why he didn’t let her speak to Philippe on the phone. I have him. If she trades right now, she can make a run for it. Tell her to send you out to the street and I’ll swap for Philippe. Berardi will be here in ten minutes. Not much time. She has to think fast.”
“She agrees,” Miguel said after another brief discussion. “Last house on the row.”
The line clicked off.
Pia looked at Tania. “Too easy?”
“Yeah too easy. GPS shows second house from the end, not the last.”
They squished their earbuds in place and set up their comlink. Pia rolled the car forward, inch by inch, toward the third house from the end, letting the engine idle them onward. Her eyes scanned everything in front of her. As she rolled into view of the second house, something caught her eye—a shadow in an upper story window. She slammed the selector into reverse and smashed the gas pedal to the floor. Her windshield exploded. A bullet passed four inches above the steering wheel, right where her head had been a split second earlier.
The car raced backwards past two houses and stopped. Pia leapt out and shook off tiny shards of peanut-sized safety glass. Tania struggled to keep up, a crutch shoved into one armpit, an M4 in her free hand.
A house with peeling gray paint that looked abandoned stood between Pia and Villeneuve. A broken window gave her a view of an empty room. The fewer innocent civilians between them, the better.
The road followed the river, bending to the left. The houses canted forward enough that the third house from the end, the empty one, provided cover. Pia ran to its front edge. From there she could see the side of Villeneuve’s hideout. It had faded and peeling yellow paint with red trim. A red shingle roof with many shingles still in place. Villeneuve’s personal car was parked on the near side.
The house featured one large dirty window along the facing wall, a smaller dirty window near it, a basement, a small concrete stoop. A broken children’s swing stood rusting between buildings. Pia ran down
the side of the empty house. At the back, she slowed and inched along until she could see the backside of Villeneuve’s hiding place. An unpainted wooden deck with three steps leading up. A single door with a wide window next to it.
Tania caught up, her limp under control only by her grim determination.
“Miguel started to say base, which must mean basement,” Pia said. “Upstairs should be clear of hostages. You go around the front and fire at the second level. You might get lucky and wing her. You’ll definitely get her attention. I’ll use the distraction to go in the back door.”
“I’ll lay down bursts of three,” Tania said. “Four of them ought to do it. They’ll be three seconds apart. Make your run right after the first burst. She’ll duck, then she’ll look for the source. That’s your chance. If she’s dumb, she’ll walk right into the next burst. I’ll give you a cue.”
“She’s not dumb.”
“Best chance we have anyway.”
Tania limped toward the front. When she was in position, her voice came through the earbud. She said, “Hey, Pia, know what I like about you? You know you’re going to die and you’re all chill.”
Tania fired into the blank wall where the upper floor should start, then counted aloud.
Pia took off running. As she neared the back deck, she looked through the dirty window on the side. A silhouetted figure ran through, headed to the back. Villeneuve wasn’t falling for it. Pia reached the steps and raced up them. Through the dim back door glass, she could see the figure coming. She dove for the deck, her hands picking up splinters.
Three shots. The first blew a hole in the door’s bottom half. The second and third blew out the glass.
Pia rolled onto her back and aimed at the door. Her shoulders and arms shook with strain and fear. Her breath came fast and hard through her nose. The barrel of a Sig Sauer poked out the window.
She rolled off the deck a second before two more bullets fired into the planks she’d left behind. The Glock skittered across the dirt. Pia froze.
Villeneuve’s face came to the broken glass. Her gun and eyes scanned from the left, away from Pia. Faces speak louder than words, and Carla Villeneuve’s face screamed hate. Pia’s opponent intended to win in a game where winning meant living.