Run
Dieter Schwarz
They found us.
Dieter watched as Flicka’s emerald eyes widened, watching the man who stopped in front of the van, laying his hands on the hood and staring inside at them.
Claude Brousseau.Dieter recognized the guy, one of Quentin Sault’s Monegasque Secret Service men,dammit.
Flicka said, in her sweet, soft voice,“Dieter—”
Dieter yelled, “Go!” but the van’s side door was already being pried open.
Aaron jammed the transmission into gear and called from the driver’s seat, “Do I run him over?”
“Push him!” Dieter answered.
The van rocked, and metal screamed. The guys outside had a circular saw with a whirling blade and a crowbar, and they were prying the metal door from the van as they went after the locks and hinges with the saw.
Dieter grabbed Flicka’s arm and pulled her onto the couch, shoving her behind him and plastering himself over her. Like hell, they were going to take her. They’d have to go through his dead body.
The van lurched under him, and he hung onto the back of the couch. He yelled to Aaron, “Get us out of here!”
The van nudged forward, the nose bobbing up a little. “They’ve put chocks under the wheels. I’ll have to gun it and kill the guy in front. Maybe.”
In front of the van, Claude Brousseau was still leaning on the hood and glaring at them. His dark eyes squinted with anger.
Dieter reached behind himself and tugged a gun from his waistband holster and a knife from the scabbard on his ankle. He muttered to Flicka, “Stay back.”
The van door screeched half-open.
Prying apart the metal had deformed it, and the men outside shoved the door to open it.
Quentin Sault, Mathys Vitale, and Jordan Defrancesco stood outside the van.
Defrancesco held a saw with both hands like a weapon and didn’t look up.
Dammit, Dieter could have used a call that Sault’s men were onto them. They’d probably followed the lawyer and then the van, dammit.
Mathys Vitale started to climb into the van through the opening.
Dieter pushed off behind himself and kicked Vitale in the face with his thick boot.
Vitale rocked back but kept coming, sneering through the blood pouring down his nose. Behind him, Sault drew a gun and aimed it above Vitale’s head at Dieter.
From behind Dieter, a gunshot blasted his eardrums.
He ducked, his hands going over his head. Gunpowder sparks stung his bare forearms and the back of his neck.
The Monegasque Secret Service men scattered.
Dieter looked back and saw Flicka swing a handgun toward the front of the van, pointing it at Claude Brousseau, whose eyes bugged out as he dove away.
Dieter yelled to Aaron, “Drive!”
Aaron yanked the steering wheel and jammed the accelerator. The van jumped the chocks and careened down the street.
Dieter started to pitch around the van, but he grabbed the headrest of the passenger seat and dragged the sliding door part way closed. The metal was too twisted to allow it to go any farther.
