Cara Black - Murder in the Sentier

She stuck Etienne’s gun against his ribs. “Let’s meet Jules instead.” He tried to sprint past her but she stuck her foot out and tripped him. He crashed into the stone wall. She put the gun to his temple, rolled back the trigger.

“Where’s Jules?”

He was breathing short and quick. “He didn’t show up.”

“Why?

Nessim tried to twist away but she pinched a nerve in his neck and he went stiff with pain.

“That’s just for appetizers.” She pinched harder.

“I don’t know,” he gasped.

“You’re Michel’s uncle Nessim, aren’t you?”

Surprise painted his face. He nodded.

“That’s another reason I don’t like you,” she said. “But you’re going legit soon. And all your little sweatshops, too. The ones with poisonous equipment that give people TB.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t like all those fake credit guarantees by the Kookie Mode company, which fronted for Michel’s supplies, and the ordered merchandise that they never paid for, and then their filing for bankruptcy. You face seven years in Frésnes.”

“I’ll be a poor man …”

“But a happy one,” she said. “Where’s Jules?”

He shook his head.

“He was late. Before our appointment, he was meeting those old radicals.”

“Action-Réaction?”

He nodded, his eyes fearful.

“Stay here for awhile.” She shoved him into a dark alcove, and, grabbing pink plastic twine from boxes in the hall, twisted it around his wrists and ankles just as she had tied Etienne. Tight. She was getting good at doing this with a gun in her hand. “Think about how good you’ll feel starting a new life after giving Michel that building with all new electric wiring.”

She slipped Etienne’s gun back into her backpack. Nessim’s eyes popped. He started shouting. She pulled off his shoe, slipped off his dirty gray sock, and stuffed it into his mouth.

SHE WALKED quickly toward Action-Réaction, taking a short-cut through another passage.

From the far end of the dim, deserted passage came the sounds of the shops’ closing up: the emptying of garbage, locks clicking. Suddenly a whizzing sliced by her ear and the half-silvered long mirror in front of her shattered.

A bullet … she ducked, fell over a trash bin and scrambled over the floor. A sharp pain sliced her calf then raced up her thigh as a glass shard cut her. Cloth and material scattered over the uneven tiles. Feathers and bits of fiberfill sprayed over her, like snow in July. She clawed her way over the damp material and leaned against the passage wall.

No time to catch her breath. Ahead of her the metal grate over the passage exit had been locked!

Footsteps pounded in the distance.

She pulled herself up on the protruding water pipe that snaked over the stone wall. As she dug her toes in where the pipes joined and gripped the rusted metal supports, she wished she was wearing high-tops instead of Manolo Blahnik heels. Every toehold hurt. But the only way out was over the passage’s glass roof.

The tinted, metal-framed glass peaked above the locked passage. Grayish blue light dribbled over the dark storefronts, creating a webbed pattern on the tiled floor. The rusted fire escape at the far end was broken; she had no option.

She clutched the stonework, feeling the pipe sway dangerously below the oval mezzanine window that overlooked the passage like a balcony. Two floors rose above her. Below in the shadows, she heard the metallic click of a door.

She shimmied up the stone, reaching and pulling herself to the next window ledge, which was dusty and sharp. An ominous crack came from the pipe and she climbed faster, searching for toeholds, panting and praying. She tried not to look down but every few meters her grip slipped and her eyes locked on the dirty tile below.

Power tools, glass rectangles, and metal rods filled the walkway skirting the glass roof. She jumped onto the walkway, landing by a bucket of plaster, hammers, and saws. She stood and tried the window handle. Rusted shut. No way to get out.

Thuds and pounding shook the water-stained door on her right.

Whoever it was had made it up here by the stairway while she’d had to do it the hard way.

She reached into the pack for the .357 and used it as a hammer against one of the panes in the heavy glass roof. The several-meter-thick glass didn’t even chip. She didn’t want to waste bullets so she put back the .357 and picked up the nail gun at her feet, flicked the switch, and shot nails into the glass, which veined into rivers of tiny cracks, sparkling in the dim light. Panes quivered and then shattered.

Stooping, she was about to crawl through the hole she had made when an arm caught her and spun her around.

Gisela’s face glistened.

“Like I said, I’m good at following up,” she said, pointing a Beretta, like Aimée’s, at her. “They belong to me. My mother died for them.”

“The diamonds? Your mother committed suicide because her political convictions crumbled and she couldn’t take prison anymore,” Aimée said. “But wherever they are, you’re welcome to them. Ask Jules.”

“You’re lying about my mother,” she said. “Jules was supposed to be at Action-Réaction but he’s not there.

Then were Gisela and Jules in this together?

“You killed Teynard,” Aimée accused her. “Why?”

“Jules said he was in the way,” Gisela told her.

So she had guessed right. Gisela and Jules were in league!

“Where’s Stefan?” Aimée asked.

“That’s where I’m taking you.”

Was Stefan in on this too? “Gisela, you think outwitting two terrorists who’ve evaded capture for twenty years …”

“Stefan’s gone soft,” said Gisela.

Then there would be only two against her, instead of three.

Aimée knocked the Beretta from Gisela’s hand into a sack of plaster.

Gisela grasped a long wrench, and Aimée followed its arc in slow motion as it sliced down toward her head. She ducked, pulled the nail gun up, and emptied it into Gisela’s thigh. Gisela’s screams resounded in her ears.

By the time Aimée could get sense from Gisela she knew she had to hurry or Stefan would be the next to die.

Tour-Jean-Sans-Peur … why hadn’t she thought of it before … Jutta and the renovation at Tour Jean-Sans-Peur! She made herself run. Narrow rue Sentier lay deserted. She tried to ignore the pain in her leg and the sticky feel of her own blood accompanying her strides.

A crescent of moonlight reflected on the cobbles of the tower’s courtyard. She climbed over the locked gate. The tower lay silent and dark, like a chess piece. Beyond the tower’s entrance was the adjoining school construction site. As she went closer, distant noises came from below the partially gutted tower—a measured scraping, like digging. Moving behind a small cement mixer and pile of sand, she pushed aside a plywood barrier.

Inside, an incandescent work light, yellow cable and wire trailing from it, illuminated a stone floor. An arc welder, and forklifts were parked by a cordoned-off ventilation duct. Several holes in the floor were taped over and crossed by rebar scraps she’d barely noticed last time. Frigid air rose from the subterranean depths. She pulled the red leather jacket tighter over her cat suit and headed to the stone stairs. The smell of old stone and powdered plaster filled the stairwell. The stair treads were piled with big suction disks, the kind used by glaziers to move glass.

She pulled Etienne’s .357 from her backpack and followed the scraping noise down the steps. Rusty-colored rebar of all different lengths poked out of the cement walls on the next floor. A gaping hole in the wall revealed a dimly lit tunnel. The scraping was louder now. She entered the curved, packed-earth tunnel.