"No problem," Jacques said, drawing his Walther, "We'll meet you back at the hotel. This won’t be a problem."

  Cris hustled Maria along the narrow walkway between the lines of stalled vehicles. She was like an automaton, her mind refusing to register what was happening. Again. The first shots cracked out, and someone screamed. There was nothing he could do. He had a primary duty, and that was to the woman who was his principal and lover, Maria Tereshkova. When they’d walked a hundred meters, she turned to Cris. "They found us."

  "Keep walking."

  "Not them, them!"

  She was staring ahead, and three more people were advancing toward them from the tunnel entrance. Two men and a woman, and these weren't pretending to be a road repair crew. Neither did they bother to conceal their weapons. Not handguns, but assault rifles.

  He was already grabbing for his gun, and he simultaneously pulled her behind a vehicle and away from the line of fire. They’d been clever and caught them in a pincer movement. Not difficult to arrange, just use a stalled truck to hold up the traffic, and they were coming at them from both sides. Although how they knew when and where they were going he’d no idea. He’d think about that later. Unless they did something fast, they’d be shredded. The enemy in front openly carried assault rifles, AKMs, and if they fired on full auto, they’d turn the Pont de l’Alma tunnel into a slaughterhouse. Still, he was reluctant to open fire. He’d tossed in his job with DEA after a drug raid went wrong, and scores of innocents died in what became a bloodbath.

  The nearest shooter, a man with a pale, white face like a corpse, threw his AK to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. A stream of bullets tore through the tunnel, and several rounds impacted the stalled vehicles. People screamed, and he dragged her down to the tarmac, popping two shots at the approaching hostiles to hold them back.

  “We have to keep moving and get out of here, but we’ll have to crawl. Keep our heads down.”

  “Cris, we’ll be moving toward them.”

  “We don’t have any choice. We can’t go back. They have the tunnel blocked, so we have to go forward. When we get close, I’ll take them.”

  She had her tiny pistol in her hand, and her expression was like granite. “I can help you kill them. If that’s what it takes.”

  He looked at the tiny automatic and made a mental comparison with the three assault rifles. “Sure you can.”

  He popped up again, and they were still advancing, not caring to take cover. They saw him, and a volley of bullets lashed around him. More screams from the cars told him they’d killed innocents. It reminded him of that fateful day when they’d gone in to take down a prominent trafficker. When the bad guys started shooting, it was always the innocent who died. Now it was happening again.

  “Stay down. I’m going forward.”

  “But…”

  “No buts.

  “Be ready to use your gun, and stay down.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he raced forward, bent double so covered by the vehicles. The nearest hostile was less than twenty yards ahead of him, and the weapon fired again, lighting up the tunnel with muzzle flashes. More screams echoed from the innocent victims. He moved to the adjacent traffic lane and squeezed into a gap between the next two vehicles.

  Seconds later, the man appeared, no more than four yards in front. Rhodes jumped up, squeezed the trigger three times, and dove back down. The shattering bursts of gunfire from the other two shooters chipped masonry from the tunnel wall where he’d been standing, tearing into more vehicles. He scuttled between them and reached the place he’d pinpointed as a good ambush spot.

  The truck had a high ground clearance, and he threw himself underneath and waited. He didn't have long to wait. He heard footsteps approaching, and a hard looking man was walking toward him. Cheap jeans, cheap black leather jacket, and cropped hair. Pale skin, like the belly of a fish. As if he’d recently been released from a long term of imprisonment. Somewhere the sun rarely shone. His footsteps were loud on the tarmac surface of the road, and Cris almost smiled.

  This was a bully, a man who wanted people to know he'd arrived. Big, heavily muscled, he wore boots with hard leather soles that rang loud on the concrete surface. An incredible act of folly, as if so confident in his overpowering strength he didn't care who heard him coming. Or maybe his intention was for them to hear him, to be fearful and make it easier to kill them. Cris wasn’t frightened. Bullies were a manifestation of weakness.

  There was no sign of the woman, but he didn't have time to worry about her. He waited for the footsteps to come nearer, and the legs appeared as he watched from beneath the truck. Somehow, the man had approached from an unexpected side, and if Cris tried to maneuver to get close, he'd hear him, lean down, and use the assault rifle to fill him full of holes.

  Slowly, he crooked his arm in front of him, resting the barrel of the Glock on his forearm. When the man was close, he’d squeezed the trigger. The Glock had plenty of bullets in the magazine, and he fired off six rounds at the difficult target of the man's legs. He never knew how many bullets scored a hit, but the screams were eloquent testimony that at least some had reached the target. The man fell with blood pouring from his shattered legs, and now he was visible from beneath the truck. Cris fired again, three more shots at the man's torso, and each bullet went home. The man jerked as each round slammed into him. After the third bullet, he stopped moving.

  Rhodes rolled out from under the truck and peered over the trunk of the adjacent car. He saw no sign of the woman. Either she was hiding and waiting for her target to appear, or she'd gone. He crawled forward. Each time he reached the next vehicle, he dove around the hood, with the gun aimed and ready to fire. Every time the emptiness mocked him. On balance, he decided she’d run. He climbed to his feet, eyes examining the cars nearby, but saw nothing. She’d gone, and he ran back to where Maria was waiting.

  "Two dead, and the woman’s disappeared. We can start moving again.”

  As he spoke, a series of shots blasted from deeper in the tunnel. A second later a long burst from an assault rifle lit up the gloom like an electrical storm. He saw a man firing, and another man went down, but he had no idea who was dead. Only that Maria was alive, but if he didn’t get her out, she’d be dead.

  "We’re leaving now. Run!"

  "Run where?"

  “Out of the tunnel.”

  He made it to within one hundred yards of the entrance before a torrent of gunfire ripped into the cars close to them, and more civilians screamed as bullets ripped into their bodies. She was there, the woman, cropped hair like the others. Crouched just outside the entrance to the tunnel. Peering around the wall to find a target, she fired when she saw them approaching. He dragged Maria to the opposite side, and they kept moving. Not knowing how he'd deal with the female shooter, but he’d think of something.

  The motorcycle was a gift. A big, powerful BMW R1200, equipped with fitted cases to the rear rack. A fast, smooth, and powerful touring machine, perfect for what he had in mind. Not so perfect for the rider sitting on the seat. He had his head low, looking around wildly, as if trying to make up his mind whether to go forward, backward, or dive for the ground.

  Rhodes made the decision for him and slammed the butt of the Glock on his neck. The weapon didn't have the weight to deliver a hard enough blow to knock him unconscious. He followed up with a stunning rabbit chop, and he slumped. Cris dragged him off the bike and lay him gently on the ground.

  "What are you doing?" Maria asked, astonished that he'd attacked a civilian.

  “Borrowing his bike. Get on the back."

  But…"

  "Just get on," he snarled, "We’re getting out of here."

  Before they could mount the motorcycle, he heard movement from behind, and he whirled, but it was Jacques Moreau.

  "I thought I should let you know. Lescaut is dead.”

  "What about the Russians?"

  He managed a wolfish smile. "One definite, and one possible. The other got away. If you’re planning to escape on the motorcycle, I'll cover you."

  “You’re sure?"

  “The Russians will have to work a lot harder to kill me. Keep her safe.”

  "I will."

  He bundled her onto the back seat, leapt on the front, and pressed the starter button. The engine roared into life. He pulled in the clutch and kicked the gear lever into first. When he snapped open the throttle, the BMW almost did a wheelie before settling back on both wheels, and he zipped through the gaps between the stationary vehicles. They were approaching the tunnel mouth. He removed his left hand from the handlebars and pulled out his Glock. As the BMW spilled from the tunnel entrance, they took the woman by surprise. She saw them at the last second, but Cris emptied his Glock at her. Cowed by the barrage of lead, she ducked down. As he roared past, he saw her climbing down a ladder into a maintenance shaft.

  He was driving at full speed, and they reached the main highway. He slowed, knowing they were conspicuous without helmets in a city where helmets were compulsory. Breaking the speed limit would be like hanging out a red flag for the cops to stop them.

  Twenty minutes later, after threading through the Paris traffic, he stopped three blocks from the George V. He parked the motorcycle at the side of the street, leaving the keys in the ignition. Hoping for thieves to steal it, and the cops would go after them. Maria looked disheveled, her hair blown into a bird’s nest tangle by the wind, and he wiped grime from the tunnel off her face. The commissionaire of the George V greeted them with a nod. He’d seen them entering and leaving over the past two weeks, and he made no comment about their appearance. When they reached the suite, Maria disappeared into the shower. Rhodes washed at the basin in the bathroom and changed his clothes. She was thirty minutes in the shower, and he understood it was her way of dealing with the shock and trauma of the attack. A long shower under the hot water, and several minutes standing beneath ice-cold water to try to wash away the memories, at least for a short time. When she emerged, she was the familiar Maria Tereshkova. Elegant, hair and make-up perfect, and the only sign of what she'd experienced a haunted look in her eyes.

  Haunted was the wrong word. Her look was one of despair. He went to her and put his arms around her. "It's all right. We’ll handle this."

  She was shaking her head. “It’ll never end, will it, Cris?"

  Before he could reply, there was a knock on the door. She jerked in terror, but he calmed her with a hug. "I'll get it."

  He looked through the spy hole. Jacques Moreau was outside. He pulled the door open, and the former Foreign Legionnaire entered the room.

  “Jacques, it’s good to see you back.”

  He grimaced. “I was lucky to get out of there alive. I should have anticipated that trap. Driving through a long tunnel was stupid. It was the perfect place to stage an ambush. That place carries the taint of death. And now Henri is dead.”

  “I’m sorry. How did he die?”

  “They fired a long burst from an assault rifle and tore him almost in half. He didn't stand a chance. What do you plan to do now? Obviously, things have changed now the threat to Mam’selle Tereshkova has resurfaced. They must know about this hotel, and before long they'll try again. I assume you want to move away and find somewhere safe."

  Maria said, "Yes, we…"

  "That’s not the way it’s going to happen," he interrupted, "We’ve run too many times, and it’s always the same. They find us. We stand our ground and fight them off. No more. They’ve started another war, and if that’s they want, they can have it."

  Moreau shrugged his shoulders in a very Gallic gesture. "As you wish. Where do you plan to start?"

  "She needs some rest. I'm still working out how to handle this. I'll speak to you later when I’ve worked a few things out."

  "Very well, I will wait."

  He left, and Cris closed and locked the door. Maria was standing in the center of the room, shaking her head. "Cris, I don't want this, not a war. Too many people have been hurt already."

  "I don't want it either, but it's not our choice."

  Her eyes filled with tears. "I’m afraid. This whole thing is spiraling out of control, just when I thought it was over.”

  He went to her, holding her as her body heaved with sobs of abject misery, but he had to grit his teeth against the pain from the bullet lodged in his chest. Rolling around the tarmac in a French tunnel had made it worse, and he was careful not to allow her to see him wince. Once again, he resolved to get it treated as soon as they got home.

  He spoke soothing words, telling her it would be okay this time. That she didn't need to worry, but nothing made a difference. In the end, sheer exhaustion was enough to calm her. She didn't try to pull away, so he stood with her, holding her tightly, sharing the strength of his body, and trying to soothe her fears. A knock sounded on the door again.

  "That'll likely be Jacques. Maybe he's come up with some ideas to handle these bastards. We could sure use them." He swung the door open with a smile on his face. "Jacques, come on in. We were…" He stopped.

  “Monsieur Cris Rhodes?"

  Two uniformed cops were standing there with a civilian. One cop carried a compact submachine gun in his hands. The civilian who'd asked the question was older, with plainclothes cop written all over him. Cris nodded.

  "I'm Rhodes, yes."

  The man showed him an identity card. "My name is Detective Inspector Claude Jobert, and I have some questions for you about the attack."

  His mind was racing, wondering how they'd got onto him so quickly. The skirmish at the tunnel had been less than two hours before.

  He said the first thing that came to mind. "Which attack?"

  The detective sighed. "How many attacks have you been involved in? I’m referring to Charles de Gaulle airport. You were captured on the security videos. Afterward, you slipped away before we could question you."

  He was stunned. By sheer luck, they hadn't yet connected them with the battle in the tunnel. Relief swept over him, and he relaxed.

  "I didn't know you needed us to stay around."

  "It is usual in the case of multiple murders for witnesses to stay for questioning by the police. We found your names using facial recognition software at the Paris Prefecture. But we didn’t know the name of the hotel you’d checked into. The George V delayed telling us when you arrived for several days. I understand it is the normal practice, to safeguard the privacy of their guests." He shrugged, "Maybe it suits celebrities and royalty, but it doesn't suit the French police."

  "I'm sorry, Detective, I didn't realize. If we’d known, we’d have waited."

  He made a sweeping movement with his hand, as if to dismiss the obvious lie. "Why did you run away, what was the real reason? A bunch of terrorists almost kill you, and it doesn’t occur to you to speak to the police?"

  "Well, no. You see; we were here on vacation, and we…"

  The cop switched tactics in the blink of an eye, and Cris realized he'd underestimated the man. "Tell me about the Pont de l’Alma tunnel. What do you know about it?"

  The sneaky bastard knew all along about the tunnel.

  "Attack? I don't know anything about it."

  His breath hissed through his teeth as he fought to control his impatience. "We had a report from a motorcyclist. He said a man and a woman stole his motorcycle. In addition, several witnesses gave the same description of a man discharging a weapon in the tunnel. Some say he killed two men before making his escape with the woman.” He looked at Maria. “What do you know about it?"

  She shook her head. "I’m sorry. I can’t help you."

  Cris almost smiled. She wasn't admitting it, and she wasn't denying it. The cop wasn’t fooled.

  "No sooner do you arrive on French soil than you are at the scene of two separate gun attacks. I suggest you cooperate with the police, otherwise we can make your stay in France very difficult."

  Cris shrugged. "I'm sorry, officer. There's nothing to tell you."

  "It's Detective Inspector," he corrected him dryly, "Monsieur Rhodes, I don't believe a word you’ve said. I promise you I will continue my enquiries until I get to the bottom of this affair. Here's my card. If you change your mind, call that number."

  "Sure."

  "In the meantime, you will report to the Paris Prefecture every day. I do not believe you are taking this seriously, but I assure you, mass murder is a very serious business. I will talk to you again tomorrow. Good day, Monsieur, Mam’selle."

  He opened the door, stalked out, and the two cops followed. The last one slammed the door, as if to underline their disgust with their lack of cooperation.

  He turned back to her, and she was hugging her body in her arms, as if to defend herself against unknown monsters. And known monsters.

  "Cris, what do we do now?"

  "We’re going to enjoy our vacation. I don't give a damn what that French cop says, we’ll carry on."

  "Carry on? What about those men trying to kill me?"

  "We'll deal with them when the time comes. Like I said, we’re not running, not anymore. I'll talk to Jacques and work out how best to protect you. But we’re going to finish this. We didn’t want a war, but they haven’t given us a choice. Now put it out of your mind, and think about your next destination. How about going back to the Louvre, we didn't get there this morning?"

  She looked tired. As if she’d reached the end, and after two years of running and fighting, prepared to face whatever life threw at her. "Whatever."

  Jacques didn't return until the middle of the evening. "I’ve spoken to my contact in the police. As we thought, six people were involved in the attack in the tunnel. At least two men are dead, perhaps three, but the others are still on the loose." He looked at Maria. "That gun we gave you, the Le Français, have you ever fired a pistol? The situation is more serious than I realized.”

  She glanced at Cris. Two years of running was racing through her mind, a constant battle to stave stay alive, and more than once, she'd needed to use a gun to deadly effect.

  "Have I ever fired a pistol? Yes, once or twice."

  "Good. You may need it. Soon.”