Michal dove in front of her.
A blast exploded in the room as Ami hit the floor hard on her backside, sending pain piercing through her.
Another blast splintered the air.
The prisoner dropped the gun and crumpled to the floor. He lay facing her, his sightless eyes unblinking.
She blinked, stunned.
People scrambled around her. Muffled voices. She couldn’t understand…couldn’t make out their words. Could hardly hear at all. She turned to see…
Michal.
He dropped to his knees.
Carlos and Thomas instantly appeared on either side of him.
Ami struggled to her feet, scarcely noticing the detonation of agony that accompanied her every move.
She pushed her way between the men hovered around Michal.
Bright crimson spread across the fabric of the white shirt he wore, the spot widening, plunging toward the center of his chest.
Blood.
He’d been shot.
Nausea roiled in her stomach. The room spun. And then the lights went out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JACK WAITED IMPATIENTLYat a table for two on the terrace outside Café Marly. He didn’t care that the chic French restaurant sat beneath the arcades of the Louvre overlooking the majestic pyramids of steel and glass, or that tourists strolled through the courtyards with properly awed expressions. He only cared that his appointment was late.
The waitress stopped at his table once more to see if he needed anything else, but Jack waved her off. The last thing he needed was more caffeine. Or a flirtatious waitress looking for a roll in the hay with an American businessman. Ordinarily, Jack would have considered that a good thing, but there was nothing ordinary about the situation.
The events of the past twenty-four hours had convinced him beyond a doubt that Ami Donovan was in over her head.
Arad had taken her for medical attention, indicating that he had accepted her story. According to Fran Woodard, who’d stayed behind to monitor the situation, Arad’s men had discovered the planted evidence.
Jack massaged his temples, but produced no relief for the insistent throbbing there.
Preston Fowler was already in Paris and had agreed to meet with Jack for a status briefing. Jack was pretty damned sure he wasn’t going to want to hear what he had to say.
“We’ll have to make this quick,” Fowler said, appearing out of nowhere and snapping Jack back to the here and now. “The American ambassador moved our meeting up so I don’t have much time.” He hefted his portly frame into the delicate chair on the opposite side of the tiny table and scanned the terrace for the waitress.
“Hello to you, too,” Jack rumbled.
Fowler gestured to the waitress and indicated that he would have the same as Jack, a high-octane espresso. Then he settled his irritated gaze on his subordinate.
“Be thankful I was able to fit you in at all,” Fowler said crossly. “My schedule is tight. I have to be back in the States by morning.” He leaned back in his chair, ignoring its creak of protest. “What is it that couldn’t wait until the regularly scheduled briefing?”
Jack pinned him with a gaze he hoped relayed the urgency of the situation. “We have to pull her out.”
Fowler laughed outright, oblivious to the indignant stares cast his way at the outburst. When his amusement died, a mixture of anger and impatience replaced it. “Tell me you didn’t drag me over here for this worn-out tap dance.”
“She was almost made,” Jack said, his own temper flaring. “Arad is far too suspicious of her already.” He shook his head. “This latest setback is only going to increase the risk to her. She won’t be any use to us dead.”
The waitress stopped at their table before Jack could say more. She served Fowler and sashayed away. Jack was forced to wait out Fowler’s preoccupation with the woman’s swaying hips before he could continue.
