Jack took a knife from his pocket and flicked open the blade. Black carbon steel. Serrated along one edge. A gutting knife.
Instantly, Simon was back in the yard at Les Baums. Instinct took over. Reflexes fired before reason could control them. He slugged Jack in the jaw, dropping him to the ground.
“Kill him,” said Falconi.
The two enforcers moved in quickly, one from either side. Simon heard the click of a switchblade, caught a flash of steel. He threw out a foot and hooked the assailant’s leg, landing him on his back, the man’s head bouncing off the asphalt. The other threw a wild punch that struck Simon’s neck, stunning him. He rolled with the impact, taking two steps, then spinning, anchoring a foot, and putting a fist into the charging man’s sternum. The man stopped cold, mouth opened wide, all of his breath expelled. Simon finished him with an uppercut to the jaw, feeling a knuckle break, grabbing the man by his lapels and tossing him against the wall.
Two down.
Jack scrambled to his feet, knife in hand, coming at him, eyes crazed. He lunged at Simon, and Simon retreated. He lunged again, quick as a cat, and Simon felt the blade nick his ribs. He danced to his right, away from the hand brandishing the switchblade. He could feel the blood rolling down his torso. One more scar to brag about.
To his left, he was aware of Falconi digging into his jacket, but he knew better than to chance a look. He kept his eyes fixed on Jack, on the blade carving tight circles. Simon stumbled, catching his toe on a cobblestone. Jack jumped at once. Simon was ready, his ploy working as expected. He reached for the outstretched hand, finding the wrist, twisting it violently as he dropped to a knee, the bone cracking like a dry branch. The knife fell to the ground. Simon kept hold of the ruined joint, rising as fast as he could, wrenching the arm and forcing Jack to the pavement. Still, Simon didn’t let go. He placed his boot on the man’s shoulder and twisted the arm again. Spiral fracture of the humerus. Shearing of the rotator cuff. Jack screamed. Simon released him.
Falconi stood a few feet away, arm extended, a compact, nickel-plated pistol glimmering in the darkness. He advanced on Simon, raising the weapon, thumb cocking the hammer.
“Vaffanculo,” he said. “You are no friend of Tino’s, whoever you are. Simon Ledoux is dead.”
Simon backed up a step, knowing that no matter how fast he might be, he couldn’t outmaneuver a bullet. “Tell Tino to hit me harder next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” said Falconi. “Tino thinks Simon Ledoux is dead. I’m not going to tell him otherwise.”
The arm extended. The grip on the pistol firmed.
“Hold on,” said Simon. “Don’t do it. There’s a cop behind you.”
“Really?” said Falconi, too old and too wise to fall for it.
“Really,” said Simon, his eyes locked on the fast-moving figure behind Falconi.
There was a sudden motion. A raised voice. The scuff of a boot. The older man reacted too slowly, turning his head as Nikki Perez brought down the butt of her pistol on his skull.
Falconi collapsed to the ground, his gun clattering across the bricks.
Nikki picked up the pistol, then gave him a nudge with her boot. Falconi didn’t move. “You okay?”
“I think so,” said Simon. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.”
A small group stood outside the bar, watching them. A man ran inside, sounding the alarm.
“Let’s go,” said Nikki. “Now.”
She ran down the alley toward the Rue des Rosiers.
Simon ran after her.
“What was that back there?”
Nikki was bent at the waist, hands on her thighs, catching her breath after the mad dash from Le Galleon Rouge.
“What?”
“Those moves. I thought you were going to kill him.”
“Nothing,” said Simon, eyes trained for pursuers. “Just some stuff I picked up a while back.”
“Another story you’ll have to tell me.”
