Mac slid the magazine into the stock. He racked the slide, surprised at how smoothly it chambered a round. Not quite his Sig Sauer, but impressive.
Mac weighed the pistol in his hand. Why had Ava brought a firearm to Paris on a three-day romantic getaway ... a celebration of their new life as “official” civilians? Given recent events, the question answered itself. And again, he felt the barbed lance of betrayal.
He held the pistol at arm’s length and aimed it out the window toward the Place de la Concorde and the Obelisk. Why then, if she suspected she might be in danger, hadn’t she carried it with her to the restaurant?
Confused, he set the pistol down on the table next to the basket of fruit. He observed that there was a small ecru envelope tucked between an apple and an apricot. He plucked the envelope free. It was addressed to“Famille Steinhardt.”He opened it and removed the card. Two words: “Get out.” He turned it over. No name. What was that supposed to mean? “Get out.” Was it meant for him? For Ava?
There was a knock at the door. Now what? “Who is it?”
He dropped the envelope and walked down the short hallway to the door. “Coming,” he said, putting his eye to the peephole.
He heard a faint click. A millisecond later, the door opened violently, crushing his cheek, stunning him. A big man entered and shoved him against the wall, striking him on the side of the head withan open palm. Another man slipped in behind him, shutting the door and closing the security clasp.
Mac retreated, raising an arm in self-defense. A cosh slammed into his shoulder, paralyzing him, forcing him farther backward and into the living area. The man struck him again, this time on the shoulder. Mac fell to the floor. He observed that there were two men in the room, both dressed in dark suits, both bearded, Middle Eastern to look at. He knew immediately that whoever they were, they had come to kill him. It was because of Ava. She was only half the job. Mac was the other half.
If she knew something, Mac knew something.
The bigger man raised his hand high, maneuvering closer to strike Mac. He hesitated, and in that moment, Mac turned onto his side and swept his foot parallel to the floor. He landed the blow on the assailant’s calf, knocking his legs from beneath him. With a cry, the man tumbled backward. His head struck the coffee table, upending it, sending the fruit basket and the pistol onto the floor.
Mac eyed the gun lying a few feet away, beneath an antique escritoire. It was out of reach. He rolled to his left and jumped to his feet as the second man—shorter, stocky, with hooded eyes—leaped at him. The shorter man held a knife in his hand: a push dagger, the stubby, razor-sharp blade protruding from between his knuckles. It was a slashing knife. A weapon to slit a throat, to gut a man, and only after to plunge it in for the kill.
Mac stepped backward, twisting as the man lunged. The blade narrowly missed his torso. Mac aimed a blow to the man’s shoulder, propelling himself past him. The attacker stumbled, off balance. Mac spied the statuette of Napoleon. This time he would put it to good use. He snatched it up and backhanded it against the man’s skull. The sound was dull and hollow, a baseball bat striking a pumpkin. The man’s knees gave out. He crashed into a dresser and collapsed onto the carpet. He lay there shuddering, legs kicking, emitting a terrible gurgling noise. After a moment, he rolled onto his back, and Mac saw that he had stabbedhimself through the bottom of his jaw and that the blade had impaled itself in his palate.
A gunshot went off, impossibly loud in the high-ceilinged salon. A vase to Mac’s right shattered. Mac threw himself onto the carpet as the tall man straightened himself to his full height. He held Ava’s pistol and stepped forward, arm outstretched, the barrel pointed at Mac’s chest. Less than ten feet separated them.
The man pulled the trigger. Dry fire. The bullet had jammed. He racked the slide, forcing the bullet to return to the chamber, and fired again.Click!Again, the pistol jammed.
Mac yanked the blade from the second man’s jaw and buried it into his chest; a wrench of his wrist to puncture the heart, then a violent motion to free it. Blood geysered from the mortal wound. Mac stood, adjusting his grip on the knife, right hand balled into a fist, the three-inch blade extending from between his middle and ring fingers. He advanced on the taller man, who racked and reracked the pistol, vainly trying to clear the jam.
“Who are you?” asked Mac, first in English, then Arabic.
The man stared at Mac with hate, not answering. He spun the pistol in his hand so that he held it by the barrel and could use it to club Mac. He shuffled to his left, toward the center of the salon. Mac mirrored him.
“Tell me what you’re doing here! Did you take Ava?”
The man jumped at Mac, wildly swinging the pistol.
Mac dodged it easily, slashing the assailant’s wrist as he circled to his left. The man glanced down as blood seeped from the rent in his jacket.
“Talk to me,” said Mac. “Who do you work for? The Mukhabarat? The Revolutionary Guard? Who?” Mac angled his head. “Don’t tell me you’re Mossad.”
“Alawham,” he cursed. Vermin.
Definitely not Mossad.
The man bounded closer, holding the pistol at shoulder height. He jumped at Mac and swung the weapon. Mac stepped backward,slashing his outstretched arm. The man cried out, glancing at the new wound. Mac looked into the man’s eyes. Both of them knew how this would end.
“Why did they take her?” asked Mac. “What is this about? Tell me who you are.”
“Where is it?” said the man. “Give it to me,habibi.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Give it to me, and I will tell you where she is. We trade.”
“Yeah, a trade,” said Mac. “First, you tell me where she is, and then I’ll give it to you.”
The man laughed tiredly. There would be no trade.
