Mac jumped, as if shaken from a reverie. Yes, he did need help. He couldn’t do this alone. He’d never locate Ava if he had to constantly check over his shoulder.
“Harry Crooks,” he blurted. Where in the world had the name come from?
“Excuse me?”
“Crooks ... oh, uh, never mind,” said Mac, once again present. “Nothing for me. I’ve gotta run.”
Mac fled the store, talking to himself. “Harry Crooks. I wonder if the tough bastard’s still alive.”
Chapter 25
Boulevard du Montparnasse
Paris
TNT honked the horn.
Two lean, dark-eyed men hustled out a steel door. Both were dressed in black mechanics’ jumpsuits with the name “Exotic European Motorcars” sewn on the breast. One unlocked the padlock securing the retracting door and with an effort rolled it skyward. The other waved TNT inside, walking backward into the repair bay.
TNT drove the Bugatti into the shop. Bright hexagonal LED lights hung from the ceiling. There were additional bays on either side. Both were empty. As soon as TNT entered, the door was lowered. TNT waited until it slammed shut, then climbed from the car.
The mechanics were Slavs. Ben and Goran from Serbia. Both had raced cars professionally years earlier. Ben had won a few Formula 3 races. Goran had made it as a backup driver on the McLaren team for a few years. Afterward, they’d worked on the Formula 1 circuit, part of one team or another. It was a hard life, on the road eight months a year, with hell to pay unless you podiumed. They quit and settled in Paris. With their connections, they built a business selling and servicing exotic motorcars, which meant the priciest vehicles manufactured by the world’s most exclusive automobile companies. Ferrari, Lamborghini, and Bugatti, among others. It was exacting work, and that was beforedealing with the clients. Labor costs started at €500 an hour and went up from there. The old saying held true: “If you have to ask the price, it’s too expensive.”
TNT greeted both men with a handshake and a hug.
“What ... no picture?” said Goran. He was around fifty—crew cut, thin as a rail, always chewing gum. “Where’s the camera?”
“Not today,” said TNT. “No camera.”
It was his practice to bring in the car every three months for a full service. This morning, however, he had come for a different reason. The reason he could not allow Customs Inspector LeClerc to take too close a look at the car.
“Something’s wrong with the air filter,” said TNT, after turning down a coffee, a cigarette, and a stick of gum, in that order.
“What you got?” asked Goran. “Too much sand?”
“You hanging around the stables again?” said Ben. “I tell you, not good for car. Dust, hay, horse shit.” He was as small as a jockey, hunched, a constant smirk twisting his face. Ben was a horse racing enthusiast and, as such, always on the lookout for tips. “You here for big race? See you on TV yesterday. Nice horse.”
“Something like that,” said TNT. “Actually, I brought a little something from home. Something I didn’t want the boys in customs to find, and no, it isn’t drugs.”
“Not for horses,” said Ben, disappointed.
“A present,” said TNT.
“In the air filter,” said Goran, matter-of-factly.
“Air intake, actually,” said TNT. “Bolted. It’s fragile.”
“No problem, boss,” said Ben. “You let me know if that horse of yours going to win tomorrow.”
TNT patted the slight man on the shoulder. “I guarantee it,” he said, to the bemusement of both mechanics, who high-fived one another, already counting their winnings.
“You sit in waiting room, boss,” said Goran. “Be done fast.”
“I’ll stay,” said Tariq.
“You nervous, eh?” said Goran. “Think we’re going to break your present.”
“Important present,” said TNT.
