Chapter 60
?le de la Cité
Paris
Harry Crooks dialed Mac’s number again. Again, the call rolled to voicemail.
“Goddamn you, Dekker,” he said, staring out the window at the imposing facade of the cathedral. “Call me back. I’ve got him. I’ve got your bloody prince. He just walked into bloody Notre-Dame.”
Harry hung up. He wasn’t sure what to do.
He couldn’t just stay here. Mac was an old friend—more than that.
They’d worked together, fought a common foe.
He was a brother. But Harry was sixty-seven years old and a cripple.
These days they called him “handicapped” or “physically challenged,” but no matter how you softened the words, the facts remained the same.
He was stuck in this damned chair. It had been a long time since he’d felt sorry for himself, and the sentiment took him by surprise.
He was Harry friggin’ Crooks, the scourge of the Special Air Service, winner of the Victoria Cross.
As long as his heart kept beating, he would be a warrior.
To hell with the chair; he’d do his best.
“Let me out,” he said to the driver. “What do I owe you?”
Two minutes later, Harry Crooks was charging across the Place Jean-Paul II toward the cathedral of Notre-Dame.
He was done feeling sorry for himself. Three words rolled off his tongue, filling him with the fire of his youth.
He hadn’t said them aloud since the day he’d taken off his uniform for the last time.
Who Dares Wins.
The motto of the British SAS.