I hear tires hit gravel, screeching brakes, and then the rough sounds of a tumble through the grass. It isn’t fun,what they’re going through. It’s like an earthquake when you hit grass going that fast. No matter how flat and smooth the ground is, it’s much worse than the asphalt.
Lucie glances over her shoulder, wincing. “Shouldn’t we go check on them? They might be hurt.”
“We should get out of here as fast as we can,” I say. “They were prepared to get us killed to snatch the key. Their boss must’ve authorized it.”
My grip on the wheel tightens as I realize the implications. Kurt Ozzi, the respectable philanthropist billionaire who I’ve met and talked with at more than one function, the man Uncle Rich used to consider a friend, is willing to kill me if that’s what it takes for him to get his hands on a key. He’s switched gears. He’s crossed a line in his scheme against Mount Evor that neither I nor my family nor MESS thought he’d cross.
This is war.
I gun ahead along the road. There are no cars in sight for now, but there’s a blind turn coming up, where things get hilly. An oncoming vehicle could cause a lethal crash. I’d like to avoid any civilians getting involved in this if I can help it, but I also want to put as much distance between Kurt’s men and us. What if they call for backup?
Lucie grunts. She’s stifling a scream, I can tell. There’s nothing guiding us but the sound of the engine—and it sounds rough. We’ll run this car ragged at this rate.
I slow down as we hit the hills.
“That was crazy,” she says.
“Trust me—it wasn’t. Not even remotely. You’ve never watched a race before?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
We’re driving through a residential area now.
“What’s this place?” Lucie asks, peering in the dimming light.
I realize I have no clue where we are. The car’s GPS has completely lost it, either because of the speed, or the sharp curves, or Murphy’s Law. So if anything can go wrong, it will.
“Can you pull up a map?” I ask Lucie.
She uses her phone to open an app. “It looks like we’re in a southern suburb, heading west.”
We’re both out of our element here. It’s a place Lucie is unfamiliar with, and so am I, obviously. But, despite having grown up in a palace, I’m educated and well traveled enough to recognize a ghetto when I see one. Tall and soulless project housing, more homes than jobs, long-abandoned shops or restaurants, broken lights. A seedy little town where everyone knows everyone and hates almost everyone.
The car’s not sounding hot. It’s a sturdy thing, but it wasn’t meant for a Dakar qualifier. I hope it holds up until we reach a safer town with a chance of a decent hotel, or at least a place where I can pull over and make some calls.
“I have no bars,” Lucie says, holding up her phone.
Her app is no more help than the GPS, disoriented among the concrete high-rises and the labyrinth of streets and alleys of this town. I can’t see much. We go around in circles, lost.
“Look!” She points to an older couple on the street corner. “Let’s ask them for directions.”
I pull up to the curb.
She rolls the window down. “Bonjour! Could you help us, please? We’re a little lost.”
They smile and chart a course for us with a sequence of lefts, rights, and roundabouts so complex that Lucie asks them to slow down so she can take notes.
I check out the rest of the block and spy a group of four young men in tracksuits who start crossing the street. They surround the car. The old couple stops talking. I hope we can reason with these toughs, but I keep one foot hovering over the gas pedal, just in case.
One of them has it in for me. He’s leaning down and glaring hard through the window at my face. Why is he so fascinated with it? He recognizes me! And I know him. He’s the drug dealer I smashed into the wall last week in central Lyon.
Definitely Murphy’s Law.
We have to leave.I turn to Lucie, who’s gone all quiet, to tell her?—
The guy on her side is holding a gun to her temple.
