PROLOGUE
PARIS…it never changed.
He watched from the third-story window of the shop he had seized in the middle of the day along boulevard Saint-Michel. Outside, pigeons fluttered and squawked. Nearby, a waiter moved between the tables of a crowded open-air café. Natives and tourists alike chatted over drinks, never suspecting or caring what nasty business was taking place only a few meters away. He studied each face before moving on. To this day he could not stop himself from looking forher.
He shook his head. It had been two long years. She was gone. And even if she were here, her fate would be like that of the traitors bound and gagged downstairs. He turned his attention back to the sidewalk below and the pedestrians strolling along completely oblivious to anything other than the beauty of the day…of the place.
But here, where he was, there was no beauty…no good. Only the evil that men could do.
He closed his eyes and blocked the images that haunted him day and night. When would this nightmare end?
“Pardon,”came from the door behind him.“Nous sommes prêts.”
He opened his eyes. His men were ready, but he needed another moment.“Dans un moment.”A vague smile tugged at his lips. He had trained them well. Without thought, they spoke the language of those around them. In Paris they were Parisians, speaking the language as well as the natives.
As the messenger returned downstairs to those waiting patiently, their leader braced himself for the inevitable. It was time. He could not wait any longer. There would be no last-minute salvation. His orders stood.
Mentally preparing himself for the next step, he left the room. His footfalls echoed in the expectant silence as he descended the three flights of stairs. Supplications for forgiveness would be pointless. So he didn’t bother. Whatever awaited him at the end of this existence would not be pleasant. His crimes were far too great. But, unfortunately, necessary.
“What do we do with them?” One of his men, Carlos, gestured to the four bound men lying on the floor in the middle of theboulangerie.The scent of freshly baked bread did little to mask the smell of fear, of death looming.
As he, their respected leader, the one who must show no weakness, moved down the final step, he glanced at the frightened faces of those anxiously awaiting his decree. He turned his attention back to Carlos. There was no room for hesitation or remorse. “Kill them.”
CHAPTER ONE
“BLOOD PRESSURE?”Dr. Roland yelled above the organized chaos of the trauma room.
“One hundred over sixty-five,” Ami Donovan, R.N., reported. “Pulse is seventy and thready.”
“Where the hell is Mason?” Roland demanded.
“Dr. Mason’s on his way,” Jane, another R.N. on duty, told him as she shoved the X rays onto the viewing box.
Frowning, Roland took a moment to scan the views. “Let’s get this guy typed and crossed,” he barked, his attention refocusing on the patient and the two leaking wounds where the bullets had entered the upper left area of his chest.
“Doing that as we speak,” Lonnie, the lab tech, advised as warm, red blood filled the tube in his hand.
“Seventy over fifty,” Ami cut in, her own blood pressure rising with a new surge of anxiety. Internal bleeding was taking its toll on their patient.
“Get that second IV in now! Sixteen-gauge,” Roland ordered. “Let’s get this guy’s pressure back up.”
Ami dabbed Betadine on the inside of the patient’s arm and positioned the needle for insertion. The patient, Natan Olment, was a foreign VIP of some sort. Whoever he was, they’d had a hell of a time clearing his security detail from the trauma room. Only one of the bodyguards had spoken some English. From what she’d discerned of the broken conversation as they’d wheeled Mr. Olment into the ER, he’d apparently been a victim of an assassination attempt.
The patient jerked at the needle prick. Ami quickly taped the second intravenous catheter into place, then adjusted the flow of the tube. Mr. Olment stared up at her now, his eyes wide above the hissing oxygen mask, his breath coming in short, desperate puffs.
“It’s all right, sir,” she felt compelled to assure him. “We’re going to take very good care of you.”
The doors suddenly burst open behind her and Dr. Mason, the thoracic surgeon on call, breezed into the room. “Bring me up to speed!” he snapped.
“Two gunshot wounds to the chest. The X rays indicate—”
Roland’s assessment was abruptly halted by the patient’s sudden scramble to get up and off the gurney. He grabbed at Ami, his left hand waving frantically for purchase.
Startled into action, she restrained his flailing arm, preventing him from reaching his target. He screamed something at her, his words muffled behind the oxygen mask. He elbowed Ami away with his right arm, almost tearing loose the IV tubes. Jane, Lonnie and Dr. Roland forced the man back down onto the gurney.
Olment tugged free of Lonnie’s hold, his desperate, muffled shouts clearly directed at Ami, his horrified gaze fixated on her. The whole team looked at her then, confusion claiming their faces. Rattled, she pulled back a step, her presence obviously somehow threatening to the man.
When Olment was fully restrained in a four-point hold, they all took a breath, including Ami.
