That Time in Paris

by Logan Ryles

  “You’re on your own, Charlie Three. Stay sharp!”

  Wolfgang placed his palm against the bathroom door and shoved inside, ducking instinctively to avoid a surprise blow. But none came. The large bathroom had polished flagstone floor tiles and a line of marble sinks along one wall, with framed mirrors behind them. The door swung shut automatically as Wolfgang stepped inside, his shoes clapping against the flagstones.

  Wolfgang crouched and saw Spider and Raven standing in the last stall near a fire exit barred with a red alarm latch. And then there was Ivan, standing at the sink and washing his hands under steaming water while watching Wolfgang in the mirror. Ivan grinned.

  Wolfgang drew a slow breath and straightened his jacket. He glanced under the stalls again, but the men hadn’t moved. If Raven and Spider were talking, he couldn’t hear them. He turned back to Ivan and saw the big Russian’s smile grow wider as he continued to rub his hands beneath the piping hot water.

  Screw this guy.

  Wolfgang stepped across the room, his shoes clicking like a tap dancer, and selected the sink two slots down. He flipped the water on and stared at his reflection in the mirror, keeping track of Ivan out of the corner of his eye.

  “In Mother Russia, we treat bruises with vodka,” Ivan said. He spoke softly enough that Spider and Raven wouldn’t hear. His English was good, but heavily accented, like a true movie villain.

  Wolfgang waited for the water to grow hot, then he ran his wet hands through his hair, finger-combing it into order and gently dodging the spot where Ivan’s rifle butt had crashed into his head.

  “Hell of a bruise you have, Amerikos,” Ivan continued.

  “It was a cheap shot,” Wolfgang said without taking his eyes off the mirror. “In the Land of the Free, we treat those with a beat down.”

  “You haven’t got the stones.”

  “I won’t need stones for the likes of you, Ivan. You’ll be eating through a straw when I’m finished with you.”

  Ivan pulled his hands from beneath the water and flipped the faucet off as his wolfish grin reflected toward Wolfgang in the mirror. Then he reached out without looking and tore a length of paper towel from the dispenser.

  “Too bad we will never know,” he said. “My comrade, Igor, is in alley dealing with your friends. When he is finished, he will join us. Then we will see how big your stones are . . . before we crush them.”

  “Why wait?” Wolfgang asked, turning the water off. “Let’s get it on, right here, right now.” He turned to face the bigger man.

  Ivan’s smile widened, but he didn’t move.

  “Oh, that’s right. You can’t,” Wolfgang said. “You can’t afford to make a scene. Not here. That’s why you need Igor—so you can mop up the blood before the cops show up.”

  Fire flashed across Ivan’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything.

  Wolfgang tore off a sheet of paper towel and stepped closer, glaring Ivan down as he dried his hands.

  Then metal clicked against metal, and a hinge squeaked. Both Ivan and Wolfgang glanced impulsively toward the back of the room and saw Spider appear first. His face was white and sweat dripped down his cheeks as Raven walked just behind him.

  Fear crossed Spider’s eyes, and Raven appeared calculative as they both saw Wolfgang and Ivan. Moments ticked by in perfect stillness as all four men processed the situation, their minds spinning for the best move in this impossible, deadly game of chess.

  Then Raven jumped. He grabbed Spider by his upper arm and spun, ramming his shoulder through the fire door and hurtling outside into the darkness. Only a second later, Ivan roared like a bear and lunged toward Wolfgang as a fire alarm screamed from overhead.

  10

  Wolfgang slipped to the left and stuck out his right foot just in time to dodge the charging Russian and trip him up. But Ivan caught Wolfgang by the arm, and they crashed to the floor in a tangled mess of flying legs and flipping coattails.

  “Charlie Three, do you copy? What’s going on?” Edric’s shouts screamed through the earpiece, but Wolfgang didn’t have a prayer of answering as he continued to roll.

  Ivan landed on top, but before he could brace himself against the floor, Wolfgang delivered a rabbit punch to Ivan’s jaw and spun to the right. The Russian’s jaw crunched upward as teeth ground and splintered, then Ivan toppled. Wolfgang rammed his elbow against the floor, propelling himself up and on top, already preparing his next combo to Ivan’s face.

  Wolfgang’s next punch landed squarely on Ivan’s oversized nose, flesh meeting flesh, with bony, cartilage-crunching force. Blood spurted across Wolfgang’s pressed white shirt, and he raised his fist again.

  Ivan glared up with wild, crazy eyes, the grin having never left his face, and he spat blood at Wolfgang. “You punch like Polish bitch, Amerikos!” He bowed his back and rolled abruptly to the right. Wolfgang lost balance and hurtled backward, sliding across the floor and crashing into the first stall. His head snapped back against the polished marble of the stall wall with a dull crack, and his world spun. Ivan rolled to his knees, then jumped to his feet, his teeth dripping blood like a vampire as he hurtled forward.

  Wolfgang was vaguely aware of the fire alarm still screaming overhead from the breached fire door, along with panicked voices and pounding feet outside the bathroom. Edric shouted in his ear again, but somehow, the only thing that mattered was the two-hundred-fifty-pound hunk of Siberia hurtling toward him like a pass rusher ready to sack the shit out of a panicking quarterback.

  Wolfgang dipped to his right, ducking beneath the bottom edge of the stall wall, and then rolled under it only seconds before Ivan crashed into the marble at full force. Metal screeched, and a bracket tore loose. Wolfgang’s head lay next to the toilet, barely shielded from the collapsing marble panel that crashed into the toilet. Porcelain shattered as water sprayed across his face and Ivan continued to roar.

  Wolfgang felt a shoe slam into his exposed calf, then heard the sickening click-click of a pistol being chambered.

  “Where are your stones?” Ivan shouted.

  Two sharp pops cracked through the tight bathroom as a silenced pistol fired into the marble wall shielding Wolfgang. He rolled and crawled his way into the next stall as shards of porcelain and flakes of marble exploded behind him. Ivan directed his fire at Wolfgang’s kicking legs, and Wolfgang felt a bullet tear through his pants, scraping his skin and barely missing his knee. He winced and jerked his leg inside the next stall as more gunshots rang out.

  “This is Russian beat down!” Ivan cackled, his feet pounding around to the front of the stalls.

  Wolfgang’s body was alive with adrenaline, his mind flooding with panic. He had to get to his feet. He had to find a weapon.

  He rolled to his knees and slapped the lock on the stall door just in time to keep it closed under Ivan’s next blow. The Russian swore, and Wolfgang danced backward as two bullets skipped and ricocheted beneath the stall wall.

  “Dance, Amerikos! Dance, if you have the stones!”

  Wolfgang stumbled backward. His heels hit the toilet, and he sat down with a crash as Ivan pressed the muzzle of his pistol against the crack in the stall door and blew the lock away.

  “Now I put your head in toilet and make Russian hurricane!” Ivan plowed his shoulder against the door, and it burst open.

  Wolfgang twisted, reaching to his right and lifting the lid off the toilet with both hands as Ivan slid inside, gun first.

  The first bullet flew wide, smacking into the wall as Wolfgang ducked and swung with the lid. The leading edge of it crashed against Ivan’s hands, hurling the gun aside as Wolfgang launched himself off the toilet. The gun clattered to the floor, and Ivan stumbled back. Wolfgang snatched the lid back, then twisted it and swung upward, piloting the corner of the lid straight into Ivan’s nose.

  Cartilage collapsed, and fresh blood sprayed from Ivan’s face. He stumbled backward again, and Wolfgang pressed forward, driving him out of the stall and into the bathroom. Then Wolfgang deliv
ered a lightning kick with his left shin, straight into Ivan’s groin.

  The big man grunted and fell forward onto his knees, unable to maintain his balance.

  Wolfgang brought the lid down, full force across Ivan’s skull, and said, “Where are your stones?”

  The porcelain cracked as Ivan’s eyes rolled backward, then the big Russian collapsed to the floor.

  Wolfgang panted, dropping the lid’s shattered half and swabbing his bloody forehead with his sleeve.

  Edric’s voice was near panic. “Charlie Three! Do you copy?”

  Wolfgang staggered to the sink and splashed water across his face. “I’m here, Charlie Lead . . . I’m here.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “The Russian . . .” Wolfgang wiped water from his face. “He was confrontational.”

  “Not the Russian. Where’s Spider?”

  Wolfgang’s heart lurched. Spider. He’d forgotten about him in the heat of the fight.

  Wolfgang broke toward the fire door, pausing long enough to scoop up the Russian’s fallen pistol. He wasn’t sure how many rounds were left, but he wasn’t about to crash through another door unarmed.

  Biting night wind stung his eyes as he burst into the narrow street behind the hotel. The fire alarms faded behind him, but now he could hear the distant scream of European fire trucks hurtling toward the hotel. Voices shouted from the front of the building, but in the back, all was dark and still.

  Wolfgang raised the pistol and turned down the street. It was framed on both sides by tall buildings that blocked out the street lights and gave shelter to the dumpsters and heating units that lined either side of the road. Beneath the screech of the fire engines, the heaters hummed softly, masking Wolfgang’s footfall as he eased down the alley.

  “I’m in pursuit,” Wolfgang whispered.

  He looked to the end of the alley, then behind him toward the hotel front. In truth, he had no idea which way to go or where to look. Spider could be anywhere by now. He could be halfway out of the city.

  Wolfgang’s stomach twisted in knots as he took another two steps into the alley. Maybe their mission was already accomplished. Raven had plenty of time to talk to Spider. Maybe he had already ascertained the date and location of Spider’s planned attack, and maybe it didn’t matter where Spider was anymore. He was the CIA’s problem now.

  But no. Something in Wolfgang’s gut warned him that this wasn’t over. Something was still wrong. Something felt cold and uneasy.

  The sharpening breeze that whistled down the street bit through his tuxedo. He took another few steps into the alley and paused when something on the ground beyond the next dumpster caught his eye. He couldn’t tell what it was, but by the soft angles and irregular shape, he knew it wasn’t made of metal, and probably wasn’t manmade at all.

  Wolfgang broke into a jog, leading with the gun and closing on the object. His stomach churned as he heard Edric call through the earpiece again. Broken and distorted, his voice was becoming more difficult to discern, but Wolfgang wasn’t listening anyway. He approached the dumpster from the back side and held the gun at eye level, then slowly turned the corner.

  Spider lay on his back, staring skyward, his throat slit from ear to ear. Blood spilled across the pavement in a growing pool of rapidly cooling crimson. Wolfgang swept the gun left and right, but there was no sign of the killer, or of Raven.

  Wolfgang stepped back. “Charlie Lead, I’ve located Spider. He’s dead. Repeat, Spider is terminated.”

  Wolfgang’s earpiece clicked and hissed.

  Edric’s reply sounded distant. “What is your location, Charlie Three?”

  “Behind the hotel, in the street.”

  “Repeat, Charlie Three. You’re breaking up.” Edric’s voice faded and clicked, then the earpiece beeped.

  Wolfgang knelt next to the body, quickly digging through Spider’s pockets, searching for anything useful. The pockets were empty, but as Wolfgang moved to search Spider’s coat, another beeping filled his ears, this time not from the earpiece. It was from his watch.

  He twisted his arm. The watch face blinked red, with a yellow message flashing in the middle of the screen: RADIATION DETECTED.

  Wolfgang pulled his hand back, almost rolling onto his ass, then looked down at the body again as he remembered Lyle’s description of the watch. “I call it a sniffer . . . It even has a built-in Geiger counter.”

  Wolfgang pushed himself to his feet and took another step back as he scanned the length of Spider’s body, from his slit throat all the way to his shoes.

  His shoes. Wolfgang’s gaze stopped on the exposed soles of Spider’s dress shoes. They had leather soles, and the bottoms were stained with bronze-colored patches, from the heel to the toe. Wolfgang knelt down, leaning close to the shoes as the watch buzzed again. He reached out and scraped at the stains. Some of the substance lifted free of the soles in gummy strips. It was half-dried paint.

  Wolfgang stood up again and took a step back, his mind racing.

  A nuclear scientist, exposed to radiation, walking through paint . . .

  The realization hit Wolfgang like a ton of bricks. He turned toward the alley and broke into a run, pressing his hand over his ear. “Edric! Edric, the attack is today! Here in Paris! There’s a bomb in Paris!”

  The earpiece remained quiet. Wolfgang pulled it out and tapped it against his leg, then jammed it in again and repeated his frantic monologue. Once more, he was answered only by silence, and a lead weight descended into his stomach as he remembered Lyle’s other words about his gadgetry. “The battery life isn’t great.”

  Wolfgang had neglected to charge the earpiece after the café mission. It was dead now—completely useless. He gritted his teeth and dashed around to the front of the hotel. People were everywhere, crowding around the firetrucks as firefighters dashed into the hotel, towing canvas hoses. Red lights flashed, and alarms screamed. Charlie Team was nowhere in sight.

  Wolfgang pressed through the crowd, frantically searching the faces for Megan or Lyle, Edric, or hell, even Kevin.

  Somebody. Now.

  The breeze on his face intensified, bringing with it an omen of doom. He didn’t have time to find the team. He was already out of time. His hands shook, and he scanned the parking lot. He needed a car. Something fast.

  A low snarl echoed across the parking lot, and Wolfgang looked to his left. A knot of gala attendees had gathered around a substitute valet stand. They waited in line, shouting for their cars to be brought around as the wives shivered and the men cursed. The sound had come from the race-red Ferrari he’d seen earlier that night. The beast growled as it approached the valet stand, its lights flashing across the faces of the waiting gala attendees. Wolfgang broke into a run, shoving through the crowd as the driver’s door of the Ferrari swung open and the valet stepped out. Wolfgang grabbed his arm and jerked him out of the way amid shouts from the crowd, then slid inside, slamming the door and hitting the locks. The valet snatched at the door handle, shouting at him to open it. Wolfgang ignored him and searched for the gear selector. There wasn’t one, but there were three buttons built into the console next to his right leg: R, Auto, and LC—probably Launch Control.

  Wolfgang hit the auto button and slammed on the gas.

  11

  People screamed, and the Ferrari roared. Wolfgang was hurled into the plush leather seat as the back wheels spun, and then the car launched out of the portico and hurtled toward the street.

  Wolfgang slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel to the right, sliding around a corner in the parking lot before hitting the gas again and rocketing into the street. He couldn’t hear the screaming pedestrians or fire engines now, only the bellow of the V12 engine filling his ears as the car hit redline and the dash lit up with a warning light. Wolfgang hit the paddle shifter, and the transmission clicked like a fine watch. The Ferrari blasted forward as if a rocket were launching him from behind. He swerved to dodge taxicabs and late-night busses as the blinding li
ghts of Paris filled his view.

  He turned to the dash and poked at the navigation screen next to the tachometer. Wolfgang saw what looked like a voice command button, and he smashed it.

  “Take me to the Eiffel Tower!” he shouted.

  “Bienvenue dans votre Ferrari. Veuillez dire une commande.”

  “I don’t speak French! English!”

  “Veuillez dire une commande.”

  Wolfgang looked up from the nav system just in time to pull the wheel to the right and slide into the roundabout surrounding Napoleon’s Arch. Buses, cars, bicycles, and motorbikes surrounded him on all sides as people shouted and horns blared. He narrowly missed colliding with a taxicab as he completed a full circle of the arch, the Ferrari still roaring. A marker appeared on the nav screen, just a mile south of the arch on the other side of the river Seine. It was the Eiffel Tower.

  Wolfgang turned back to the left, exiting his hectic orbit of the arch and shooting onto Avenue d'Iéna. Trees leaned over the street on both sides, hugging the bright-red car as he flashed forward at over eighty miles per hour. Shoppes, apartments, tall office buildings, and squat cafés flashed past on both sides, and then he rocketed around another much smaller roundabout.

  He could see the tower now, rising out of the cityscape in majestic, semi-illuminated glory, with odd dark patches covering the middle section. Wolfgang slowed the Ferrari as he screeched into Jardins du Trocadéro. Directly ahead, the massive Trocadéro Garden’s pool stretched out to either side, with a jet of water shooting out and arcing in graceful glory before falling into the pool halfway down its length. Soft lights illuminated the fountain and the surrounding green space, and directly to his left, the Eiffel Tower shot skyward, just on the other side of the river.

  Wolfgang jerked the wheel to the left and slammed on the gas. He wasn’t intimidated by the car anymore. He knew what it could do, and he knew he could handle it. He rocketed through the Gardens and then hit the bridge, laying on the horn to alert the handful of late-night pedestrians and lovers who leaned over the water under the light of the Eiffel Tower. They screamed and scattered as the Ferrari screeched across the river and then blew through the next intersection. Directly ahead, the tower’s four legs spread out, surrounded by a low metal fence that blocked pedestrians from walking beneath it. Wolfgang hit the gas and burst through the fence at fifty miles an hour. Metal screeched down the sides of the car, and he cut the wheel to the right, spinning to a halt directly beneath Paris’s most iconic monument.