Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
I rolled before he got a good shot. The bullets sent shards from the stone street into my hair and clothes, but I kept moving, slamming right back into the attractive stranger who apparently thought his life was more valuable than mine.
He grunted, and I crawled over him, pushing up and taking a few steps toward the nearest café. Then, his hand clamped around my wrist, and he used my position to lever himself up.
I gaped as he grabbed me, tugging me inside, yanking me down behind the low wall at the entryway. When he looked at me, I felt part of myself soften. His eyes were wide and shocked.
Okay, so maybe not an asshole. Just a panicked civilian who didn’t know how to handle himself in an emergency. Not the worst sin a man with lips like that could have.
He swallowed. “What is going on?”
“I don’t know. Stay here. I’m going to try to—” I didn’t even get a chance to finish the sentence before gunfire shattered the enormous plate glass window above us.
For a second, I thought it froze, the slivers of glass hanging in midair, but just as I started to wonder what was going on , they crashed to the ground, slicing my exposed hand. One of the gunmen shouted in English.
“I saw him go in there!”
I swore under my breath. They must be after me. Who wasn’t as important as getting out right now. Why would come after who , and by the time I got to how , I had an Abbott and Costello baseball team.
Another round of gunfire prompted screams from the civilians sheltering in the café. Okay, time to make like a rodeo clown. I stood, sprinting out the door and across the street. As I passed by the men with very large guns, none of them spared me more than a glance.
The handsome European who thought shoes were for other people poked his head over the window, staring at me in shock.
“There he is!” one of the gunmen shouted. They raised their weapons, and the handsome European ducked low.
For a long beat, I hesitated, but these men weren’t French police. They weren’t Interpol, and whatever else he’d done, no one deserved to be gunned down in the street like a dog. My heart stopped at the thought of a lone man shot in the street, but that was different. What had happened—no. It was different.
I crouched next to a food cart, a small refrigerator on wheels for overheated tourists and locals who wanted some gelato. Kicking off the brakes, I sent it careening into the nearest gunman. He half turned at the scream of the ungreased wheels, but he wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way. The cart hit him hard, and he went down.
Momentum sent it careening toward another gunman, but he was faster and got out of the way, bringing his weapon around toward me. But I ducked low, sliding under the line of fire and racing back into the café.
I didn’t hesitate, grabbing hold of Mister Your Majesty’s hand and taking him out a side door. I shoved the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked? The emergency exit was locked ?
The man huffed a sigh and reached around me, pushing on the door. It opened under his hand. As we raced out, gunfire followed.
“What’s going on?” The man didn’t even sound out of breath as he repeated his earlier question.
I gaped at him. “ You tell me ! The men with enough firepower to retake the Alamo aren’t after me .”
We sprinted down a side alley, and I heard shouts behind us, the heavy tread of boots hitting the pavement as the fire team trailed us.
The alley was a straight shot, which meant we needed to get out soon. I tugged on my companion’s hand, yanking him through the narrow gap between two buildings.
“Well,” he said, following me onto a busy street. “I don’t know why they’d be after me .”
I raised an eyebrow, giving him a doubtful glance. “Really. Those men weren’t joking around. They wanted something. Apparently, you. Preferably dead, based on the number of bullets they were throwing around like Mardi Gras beads.”
“I haven’t done anything here .” The man tugged his hand out of mine, and heat rose on my face. I’d been holding on tightly, even though I didn’t even know his name. “I don’t see why anyone would have any reason to kill me here.”
“No one would have any reason to kill you here .” I stopped. The crowd of moving people jostled us closer. “That means someone out there does want you dead.”
He huffed in annoyance. “I assure you my family isn’t going to hire men toting weapons like that.”
“Your family wants you dead.” I had mixed feelings about Mamá Reyes, but no matter how infuriating “no TV until you can pickpocket the remote” was, I’d never thought about murder .
“Some of them.” The man’s forehead wrinkled, a dark frown passing over his features before he glared at me. “I doubt all of them.”
“Just some of them,” I said. “Right. Totally normal.”
We’d stood still long enough, and I didn’t like how exposed we were. My city geography was limited, so I pulled out my cell phone, dialing the only saved number.
It rang. Then it kept ringing. Twenty-one always picked up after the first ring.
Without looking at Your Majesty, Only Some of My Family Wants Me Dead, I jerked my chin. “We need to keep moving. No matter what you think, someone out there is trying to kill you.”
Grumbling under his breath, he raised his chin and followed me. I kept myself slightly in front, just enough to see what was coming.
Which turned out to be our gunmen, weapons stowed so as not to panic the oblivious pedestrians, ignoring the scream of police vehicles streaming toward the shooting they’d just committed, the only heads on the street that didn’t turn to see what the commotion was about.
Other than us, I guessed.
I swore, and Handsome European with Family Issues turned and saw the problem.
“Will they start shooting with this many people?” He looked around, craning his neck behind him.
Two of the gunmen were pushing their way through the crowd toward us, but the press of bodies made moving difficult, and I dragged Handsome European Mess down into the nearest metro station.
“I believe they’re behind us too,” Snarky Assassination Target said.
“Yeah, I figured,” I snapped.
“I’m sorry for trying to be helpful,” Absolutely Not Making Me Regret Saving His Highness pouted. “Excuse me for worrying that you might not know what you’re doing.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said, approaching the turnstile. I pressed my wallet against it, and the light flashed red. Frowning, I did it again. Red.
No. Twenty-one would never leave my metro card anything other than fully stocked with the exact amount to get me across the city and back.
“I suppose you don’t want to know that now they’re blocking the stairs,” European Mess said, his voice amused.
“They’re…” I turned, and our two gunmen had been joined by two more, and that left only one or two not surrounding us. They were hanging back, clearly waiting for the crowd to clear.
Wherever they’d put their guns, their cool smirks said they were confident that the four of them could take us.
Annoyed, I pulled out the metro card and pressed it against the reader again. When it flashed red, I grunted in frustration, and some nearby woman leaned over, taking pity on me.
She spoke rapidly in French, and I opened my mouth to admit that my French was limited to things like “shoot him” and “anchovies on the side.” But Handsome European stepped in, matching her word for word.
“She says your metro card is expired,” he said to me.
The woman gestured to the agents in kiosks further down the station.
“Metro cards don’t expire,” I said, puzzled.
“Not expired,” he said. “Old? Something?”
He spoke to the woman in French again, and she led us to the kiosk, where an agent happily read my card and handed me a new one. When he saw my hand, there was a flurry of activity.
“You’re bleeding,” European Captain Obvious said, eyebrows going up.
“It’s not that bad—” I turned my hand, looking at the cut, and saw that it was so deep I would need stitches. I gaped. The glass hadn’t been that bad. I thought it hadn’t been anything more than a paper cut, but this looked like I had taken a medieval sword to my hand in order to promise to be Handsome European’s blood brother.
There was a lot more French, and then Handsome European said, “They’re calling you an ambulance.”
I glanced behind us to where the gunmen still circled. “Good idea.”
Slipping out of the hospital would be easy, and it looked like the gunmen weren’t going to make another cowboy, let’s shoot it all up move. The dangerous part would be when we got into the ambulance. They might try something then, but it looked like with all the cameras in the metro station, they were going to wait.
Just to emphasize the point, I glanced significantly at one of the small, circular pieces of glass in the ceiling. The nearest gunman glared, mouthing something that I interpreted as we are going to kill you and everyone you love, evil monologue, evil monologue, etc., etc.
One of the Metro employees fumbled with a first aid kit, coming out of their booth with it halfway open, pieces of gauze and Band-Aids spilling out onto the filthy floor. He bent to pick it up and then handed one of the dirty pieces of gauze to me. I glanced down at the cut, then shrugged. What was a little tetanus between friends?
As I pressed it to the wound, shocked at how quickly blood seeped through, one of the gunmen came close, so I could hear him when he called out, “Are you sure this is the play you want to make?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going to the hospital. I got a bad cut while avoiding some gunfire.”
“Don’t protect him,” the man advised. “It’s not worth it. Think about your life.”
I was thinking about my life. If I left Handsome European to die in the street, that would make me just as bad as everyone else who had?—
The Metro employees began speaking excitedly, waving their arms as two paramedics came down the stairs. Then there was a lot more French, which went way beyond how do I get to the bathroom? And I can wire a million dollars into your account tomorrow.
The paramedics examined my hand, spraying something on the wound that made me bite down a scream. They wrapped it in some gauze not infected with whatever was on the floor of a Paris Metro station.
At a distance, our gunmen followed us back upstairs to the street, where the paramedics’ ambulance waited. I tensed, sure that this was when they were going to make their move, but they let us get in. I kept my eyes on them.
“Do you see any more of them?” I asked Handsome European.
“I thought you didn’t care about what I saw.” He was making himself at home on the gurney, as though this was his personal chariot, and the paramedics seemed unsure what to do with him, asking a series of questions in French that I translated as Were you injured too? Do you need help?
With a huff, he rose, letting me sit down, the paramedic settling on their own small seat. The driver shut the doors, coming around front, and I watched carefully, making sure that no one knocked him out, no one took his place in the driver’s seat.
When the sirens started, I relaxed, only to tense a block later when the van screeched to a halt. The driver shouted in French.
This, I could understand. “The wheels fell off!”
“What?” I asked.
“The wheels fell off.” The driver looked back at the three of us in shock.
“What are you talking about?” The other paramedic spoke slowly, as though the driver was an idiot. He opened the back, stepping out, his eyes going wide as he examined the vehicle.
I stood, jumping out, and saw that the driver was right. All four wheels had actually fallen off the vehicle.
“I’m calling it in,” the driver yelled from the front seat, his radio already out.
Handsome European had hopped out next to me, standing slightly to the side, his head tilted as though he had never seen a car before and didn’t understand why this was a problem.
A second too late, I noticed one of the gunmen approach, grabbing Handsome European by the elbow, his other arm hidden by Handsome European’s torso, but I knew exactly what was happening. Handsome European’s eyes went wide, and he started to turn his head, but the gunman shook his elbow sharply. They wouldn’t shoot him here, not with all the bystanders come to see the ambulance that had lost its wheels. They’d take him somewhere private where they could be sure their bullets hit true.
He stumbled, following the gunman, and that was the last I was going to see of him. Goodbye, Handsome European and your mystifying footwear choice. Goodbye, gorgeous brown eyes and ironic smile.
I groaned to myself. I was not allowed to make choices about my safety based on how handsome I thought an assassination target was. I needed to write that a hundred times on the blackboard.
I was not allowed to make choices about my safety?—
Shaking my head, I gave it up. Pushing through the crowd of curious onlookers, I grabbed Handsome European’s other arm, wrenching him loose, exposing the gun that had been pressed against his back.
The gunman glared, raising it into the air and firing off three warning shots in a semiautomatic pop pop pop .
The crowd screamed, pushing and shoving, and this was our chance. I grabbed my companion’s hand and moved with the flow of the crowd, now panicking at the sight of a weapon. We darted down a side alley as soon as we saw an opportunity.
We were going to get out of this. Footsteps pounded behind us, but there was no way they had had enough time to circle around the block. We had only just now escaped. So when we came out the other side of the alley, straight into a row of three new gunmen, I glared.
“You didn’t even have time to get around the block!” Frustrated, I pulled my companion’s hand before they could make use of their very expensive arsenal, and we careened down the street. At the first shot, taking out the windshield of a nearby car, I pulled my companion left, down some stairs. This had potential. Stairs meant basement or underground access. Stairs meant?—
I tripped, tumbling down, my companion falling with me as we rolled down each painful concrete step.
I landed on my back, something heavy on my chest knocking all the air out of me. Shaking my head, I tried to shove it off, only to have my fingers touch very expensive fabric, one of my hands touching hair that felt like silk.
“Your Majesty.” I blinked at two gorgeous brown eyes. “Get off of me.”