Flicka tucked the gun in the seat by her leg. “Then we’ll leave all the guns together right before we go to the airporttonight.”
Dieter turned around. “Aaron, do we have somewhere to hole up for a few hours?”
The driver said, “The same safe house, or the place where I’ve been staying.”
“Which one is closer to the airport?”
“Mine. Montparnasse.”
Flicka grumbled, “Great. If Pierre comes after me, we can hide in the catacombs.”
Dieter let himself smile. “Let’s go there.”
Aaron swung the van around a corner.
Dieter staggered to the back of the weaving van and climbed onto the couch beside her.
She leaned against him, and he wrapped his arms around her slim body.
“Don’t try to take the gun,” she said.
“I won’t, but you know I won’t let them take you.”
She looked at the mangled van door and buried her face in his shoulder.
Dieter held her more tightly, stroking her spun gold hair. “They would have to kill me first.”
“They would.” Her arms tightened around him. “I don’t want them to kill you.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Dieter said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Okay, it’s not.” Dieter frowned at the torn-apart door and the Parisian street flowing past outside. “Do you think the Triple-A rental car insurance will cover that?”
Flicka asked, “What’s rental car insurance?”
