by Tyler Flynn
Igor stood with his gun trained on Hart’s chest. He slowly turned his head to look at Renard, then glanced back to Hart. “So, you were the fall guy. Didn’t work out nicely for you.” He steadied his gun with both hands.
Hart backed up and stretched his arms out behind him, blocking Clara, not that it would do much good, he thought, his heart stricken as shock took hold. Igor stared down the barrel, while Renard started giggling.
“I had Igor come and, Paul, when I saw you sitting in the lobby like an idiot, I couldn’t have planned this better. You’re not trained or clever enough to hunt me; you were not a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Au revoir,” he said with a wave.
“Yes, au revoir,” Igor said as his square face tightened, his eyebrows burrowing as he clenched his jaw. With a quick turn, he pointed the gun at Renard, who gave him a quizzical look. Igor smirked and stared at Renard. “You should always talk to your business partners before making decisions; otherwise, that’s just bad business.”
He fired three shots, hitting Renard in the forehead and twice in the chest. His body fell backward, landing in the small chair. A glazed look of confusion spread across his face as he slid down the squeaking leather.
Igor turned the gun towards Clara. Hart recoiled, then stepped in front of her to shield her. He never imagined he’d meet his end like this, at the hands of a lunatic in a Parisian hotel spa. He felt Clara put her hand flat against his back as he braced.
For a moment, Igor stared at them, swiveling his head like a dog trying to understand a familiar word. He dropped the gun, which swung around on the index finger of his gloved hand, the weight of the gun toppling the barrel over. He let it dangle for a second before tossing it in the air towards Hart.
Hart caught the gun with both hands and, confused, raised it towards Igor, who sprinted out through the doorway. He pulled the trigger, but the gun didn’t fire.
Igor had vanished. Hart looked at his hands in confusion and then at Clara.
“The safety is on, and now your prints are on the gun. He was wearing gloves! We have to get after him!”
She grabbed Hart by his sleeve, causing him to drop the gun, and hauled him out into the hallway. They raced towards the emergency exit at the back of the spa, where the door hung limp from its hinges. Down the hallway, the raised voices of hotel security echoed after them.
Clara burst through the exit door, leading up to a concrete staircase stacked with plastic bins and cardboard boxes. Hart tripped over a box containing plastic wrapped slippers for spa guests and proceeded to kick the box down the staircase. They sprinted up two flights and pushed open another door, leading to the service entrance in the back alley. Clara spun around, searching for Igor, but apart from several green dumpsters and a large puddle of water, the alley was vacant.
Clara made towards the street. “We need to get to the car.”
Hart ran after her. “I am tired of leaving! We just left a room with a dead man and my prints on the gun. It looks like we’re on a murder spree!” His face was red, and he struggled to keep pace with Clara, who was walking with purpose.
She spoke out of the side of her mouth as they approaching a side street that would lead back to Rue Saint-Honoré. “We don’t have time for your feelings, don’t you get it? We need to prove our innocence, and all our options are dead besides Igor, who got away!” She bit her lip in frustration and marched into the pedestrian traffic heading west towards Place Vendôme and Justine’s parked Renault.
They wove their way through the midday lunch crowd in the First Arrondissement as police sirens howled across the city. Hart and Clara constantly checked over their shoulders until they reached the Renault and climbed into the car, out of breath and, seemingly, ideas.
“What’s the plan now?” Hart looked at Clara as she sat with her arms braced on the steering wheel.
She shook her head slowly. “Why am I always the one having to come up with a plan? What do you think we should do? Tell me, you’re always asking others for ideas and doing what you’re told, but tell me, what great ideas have you offered?” She glared at him. Her eyes searched his, and they betrayed her true emotion, which to Hart wasn’t anger but sadness. But, Hart thought, she probably wasn’t wrong; he’d been reliant on others for so much, and now his fate seemed out of his hands.
“Let’s get out of here and catch our breath. Head south across the river.”
Clara nodded. “That was my plan.”
41
Paris
Clara drove south across Place de la Concorde. Hart stared out the window, remembering the innocence of his first few days in Paris. They crossed the Seine and went towards the Sixth Arrondissement, where even on a Friday afternoon the tree-lined streets and cafés were quieter than in the bustling First. The sky began to darken as the winds picked up. A late-afternoon storm was creeping closer, just in time for the early commuters’ trip home.
Clara pulled to a stop at the four-way intersection where Boulevard Raspail, Boulevard Saint-Germain, and Rue de Bac met. Hart had no idea where they were going but kept staring out the window, trying to calm himself.
A loud rev from a motorcycle behind them caused Hart to look in his side mirror as the light flicked green. Clara turned right down Rue de Bac, past the small pharmacies and chocolate shops of the residential Saint-Germain-dés-Pres neighborhood, and stopped at another light to let pedestrians cross the one-way street. Clara tapped the steering wheel until the light changed.
They passed Le Bon Marché, at the end of Rue de Bac, and continued south further down a side street, where traffic thinned, and Hart told himself they were safe.
Clara lifted her hand up and snapped her fingers. “I have a plan, and I think it could work.”
She smiled. Hart momentarily felt relief as the corner of his mouth rounded into a smile, but he caught sight of her eyes widening with fright while she gazed past him out his passenger-side window. Hart turned to see a motorcycle rider with a black helmet raise a pistol and fire several shots into the car. The glass shattered on Hart as he held out his left arm to press Clara back into her seat, out of the line of fire.
Clara slammed on the brakes as the motorcycle sped ahead of the car. The ear-piercing gunshots had temporarily deafened Hart. He had cuts over his arms and felt his face sliced from the exploding glass window. The black motorcycle screeched to a stop diagonally across the one-way road, some twenty yards ahead of them. The tinted glass of the helmet was raised, revealing Igor’s square face. He lifted his gun and fired off two shots towards the Renault that pierced the windshield.
Clara slammed the car into first gear and stomped on the gas, causing the tires to scream in protest. Igor cranked the throttle of the bike and kicked its rear wheel around, hopping the curb, barely avoiding the passing Renault.
An elderly couple on the sidewalk shuffled as fast as they could into a vacant doorway, dropping a grocery bag full of oranges as the bike sped past, chasing down Clara and Hart. Clara smoothly shifted into third and knifed into oncoming traffic at Rue de Sevres, heading westbound across the Left Bank of Paris. She tucked into traffic behind a tall gray van and a red Nissan and quickly became boxed in.
“It’s Igor.” Hart strained over the passenger seat to get a view of the bike weaving through traffic behind them. His head was blurry from the gunshots, the broken-glass cuts, and the wind as it whipped through the window frame as Clara sped along.
Clara was bent over at the wheel, trying to see through the windshield, which was badly cracked.
“There’s a police station and military barracks at Les Invalides. We can make it there. I can’t risk innocent lives in a gunfight and a wild chase.”
She squinted to see the traffic and pushed the Renault into fourth gear, passing a car on the right, causing a confused and angry gesture from the slower van driver. She swerved back in front of the van, blocking Igor’s approach. Hart could hear the high-pitch cry from the motorcycle as it darted into the side mirror, like a lion chasing
down its prey on an open plain.
The road opened up as they sped by Hôpital Neckar on their left. Clara cut the wheel to the right, slicing down a side street, Avenue de Saxe, where a wide central reservation with parked cars split the road. They raced towards an expansive roundabout. Igor pulled his pistol and fired. Clara ducked, and Hart spun low in his seat to see the back window explode in a shower of glass.
Clara dropped the car down a gear and the engine cried out at over four thousand RPMs as a three-lane roundabout approached. She pushed the Renault through several lanes, cutting through the flow of traffic like a knife through butter, causing a silver Peugeot to skid sideways to a stop and several horns to be blared in protest. Beyond the roundabout, Hart could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the tall icon blending into the stormy clouds as a flash of horizontal lightning lit up the sky.
The Renault’s tires yowled in disapproval as Clara pushed the car to its limits. A Mercedes taxi cut across the left side of their car, clipping its front fender. Hart desperately held on to the roof handle as the car shook violently from the hit, wobbling back and forth, before Clara caught its unruly back end. She maneuvered the damaged car to the first exit, down Avenue de Breteuil towards Invalides and the tomb of Napoleon.
“Why is he chasing us if he let us leave the hotel?” Hart screamed over the noise of the engine and wind whipping through the shattered windows.
“He tried to set us up! He figured we would stay, but he tailed us when he saw we chased him from the hotel. He’s good. I never saw him!” Clara shouted, cutting the wheel hard to the left, zipping by a car attempting to parallel-park.
Hart could see pedestrians down the road looking up briefly before refocusing on the portion of sidewalk in front of them with Parisian indifference.
Igor crossed through the traffic of the roundabout, trailing behind the Renault, weaving in and out of vehicles much more easily than the lumbering Renault, which was badly damaged from gunfire and the abuse it’d taken. He cranked the throttle and attempted to pull up alongside the passenger-side window once more.
Hart could see Invalides growing closer, its massive golden dome bright in the ever-darkening sky. The storm had rolled in with vigor from the west, and a few drops of rain fell on the cracked windshield.
Hart looked away from Invalides and to his right, and found a black helmet staring back at him. Clara screamed, “Get down!” but Hart didn’t listen, his eyes swelling with rage. He opened the car door with as much might as he could against the resistance of the wind and with the restraint of his seat belt his only safety measure. He shoved the door as hard as he could into the motorcycle. Igor kicked back at the door, which slammed shut with a great deal of force, causing the Renault to swerve. Igor flipped the tinted visor up and stared at them with spiteful gray eyes, as if shocked by Hart’s brashness.
Clara seized on Hart’s initiative and grabbed him by the arm and yelled, “Hold on!”
She swerved the car hard to the right, pinning the motorcycle to the parked cars that lined the street. The Renault’s front end hit the middle of a Peugeot hatchback, cutting the motorcycle off and pinning Igor to the parked cars. Igor’s motorcycle fought for grip to stay upright, but he was thrown sprawling across the hood of the Renault and disappeared from sight. The collision sent the front end of their Renault scraping down the row of parked cars, until it hit the back of the parked van, causing the Renault to violently spin with the impact. The mangled car settled perpendicularly across the road.
Hart was jolted awake to the smell of gasoline and the horn sounding flatly as Clara’s head rested on the steering wheel. The cracked radiator hissed, with steam pouring from the crinkled hood. There was a distant wail of sirens and crack of thunder as rain began to fall, finding its way through the broken windows onto his face.
He undid his seat belt gingerly. His body ached from the awkward force of the crash, and he found it painful to breathe. He reached over to put a hand on Clara’s shoulder, brushed her dark hair back softly, and leaned over to check on her. Her breathing was labored, her eyes were closed, and there was a pained expression across her face and a gash on her forehead. He shook her gently by the shoulder and said her name softly, and she stirred. Her eyes fluttered once, then shut.
Hart heard the sound of glass scraping on the ground. Igor. He realized that he was half-glad Igor wasn’t dead but half-afraid as well. Hart fought to open his broken door. He gave a firm kick and it gave way, the bent metal groaning in displeasure. He told Clara he’d be right back and lumbered out of the car, leaning against it for support as he rolled around the back side to the driver’s side to find only broken glass on the ground—no Igor.
He began to turn around when he was smacked across his back. He doubled over, pain shooting through his back. Igor stood, helmet in hand, and swung it hard over his unsuspecting victim once again. Hart blocked the blow with his shoulder, protecting his head, and tackled Igor, trying to drive him to the ground, but instead it felt like trying to tackle a tree. Hart’s body was sore from the crash and no match for the strong, boxy frame of his would-be assassin. Igor rolled with the momentum of Hart’s attempted tackle and crashed him against the side of the smoking car. The rain had begun to fall steadily, the car slippery as they both fell to the ground, Hart landing on top of Igor. He pinned Igor against the wheel of the car and tried to keep him pressed against it.
Hart reached for Igor’s thick neck, managing to grab it and squeeze before Igor countered with two quick punches, hitting him in the kidney and ribs, the sharp pain screaming down his back. Hart gasped for air and swung his right elbow across Igor’s face, catching him squarely on the chin. Igor pushed off the wheel with his back and used his body weight to bulldoze Hart over. Once on top of Hart, and holding him by his jacket collar, Igor slammed him into the ground. Hart felt the side of the car with his feet and kicked hard off of it, landing his knee on Igor’s back, forcing the air out of his lungs with an audible gush as Igor straightened upright and winced in pain.
Hart sat up and swung both his arms over to the side of Igor and tried to get the bigger man off him. Igor thrashed sideways and threw a punch that connected with Hart’s right temple, knocking him back down. Igor lunged, landing on top of Hart, who felt the air leaving his lungs. Hart’s arms were outstretched and pinned under Igor’s thick legs, which remained straddled on top of him. Igor’s meaty hands reached for Hart’s neck and began to squeeze, slowly at first, then tighter, his eyes wild and bloodthirsty. Hart gasped for air and felt raindrops falling on his face, the hard, cold asphalt below him, and then gradually the life being taken from him.
He tried to swing his arms and legs with all the power he could muster into Igor to break his grip, but the man was too strong. Hart saw the fire in his would-be killer’s eyes. Both men knew the inevitable outcome: Hart had lost. The raindrops continued to fall, but none were felt by Hart, who only sensed a chilling cold and numbness washing over him, his eyes heavy.
The dark sky turned black. The noisy cracks of thunder, the wailing sirens, and scraping of broken glass by his writhing feet were replaced by a piercing silence as death came to Hart. He managed to look towards the car for Clara, who was still slumped over the wheel, her eyes fluttering as she tried to sit up. Hart tried to call for her, but no sound came. He locked eyes with her for a moment, wishing to express things that couldn’t go unsaid. Hart said a silent goodbye. Igor looked at Clara, then back at Hart, and smiling, he leaned in close to him.
“I will kill her after you.” He leaned in closer, inches away from Hart’s ear. “I’ll take my time to make sure she feels death coming.”
Igor sat back upright and pressed down on Hart’s throat with more force. Hart felt his limbs go numb, trapped under his killer.
Hart didn’t know what happened next. He thought there was some final stage in which death would pass before him and reveal itself. He felt the thud of the shots more than he heard them, a thunderous clap he first mistook for t
he storm. Hart saw Igor squirm upright as his hands relaxed from Hart’s throat, allowing him to gasp for air, his lungs finding fresh oxygen. Igor’s eyes widened in shock, and pain smeared his face.
Igor turned to face Clara, who fired another shot into his chest. She was still slumped in the front seat, with her gun held below the steering wheel, her right arm draped across her legs. Hart sat up and pushed Igor, who toppled over, motionless, on the pavement. The blue raincoat Igor wore bled into a dark red. The man’s gray eyes were vacant, reflecting the dark clouds above, a disbelieving look on his face as he felt about his chest.
Hart grabbed Igor’s collar, lifting him off the ground. He grimaced as he spoke through his teeth. “Why did you do it all? Tell me!”
Igor looked up at Hart and dismissed him by turning his head towards Clara, staring for several seconds before turning back to Hart with a wide and bloody smile. His gray eyes rolled back into his head and he fell limp.
Hart threw him to the ground and crawled to the Renault and Clara, who sat slumped in the driver’s seat, her gun having fallen onto the ground. He staggered to his feet and could see flashing lights and hear the high-pitched sirens racing to them from every direction.
“We’re okay, it’s over.”
He brushed the hair back behind Clara’s ear as her eyes struggled to open. He could see her eyelids fluttering, but it was the only response he was getting. Gently, he lifted her off the steering wheel and tried to sit her upright, but she left out a painful sigh, causing him to stop. He looked down at her lap, stained a dark red. He saw her hand pressed to her stomach, covered in blood. She had been shot.
He called her name and gently stroked her face. She was barely conscious, her breathing short and labored, her pulse faint.
“No, no, no! Please, God, no, stay with me! Clara, I’m here. Je suis là.” He stroked her cheek, which had lost its color and was cold. “You can’t, you can’t.”
Two large green military jeeps screamed to a stop yards from their car. A dozen camouflaged men jumped out and surrounded them, with their black automatic rifles pointed at them. Four police cars slid to a stop as officers with red police armbands jumped out, pistols raised, yelling orders in French to Hart. His mind couldn’t process what he heard, but it didn’t matter. All he wanted was for Clara to get medical attention.