GABE
Daniel kicks his feet up and sips a coffee. He smiles at the ugly looks he gets from passing Parisians. “You know who I hate most in the world?” He raises his eyebrows. “The French.”
“Can’t wait to hear why.” I watch across the street where two young men are sitting on a porch. Their motorbikes are parked nearby, their helmets on the ground at their feet. They smoke cigarettes and look at their phones.
“They had the world. Conquered Europe. Marched into Russia?—“
“Are you talking about Napoleon?”
“Of course I’m talking about Napoleon.”
“That was like two hundred years ago.”
“They can’t get over it! That’s what I’m trying to say.” Daniel bangs against the table. I swear, he’s doing this loud-annoying-American routine on purpose. “The French peaked withNapoleon. They did revolution, then they did empire, and now look. They have no spirit. No industry. Nothing. Zilch. Nada.”
I frown, trying to think of one good French export over the last decade, but struggle. “They’re good at soccer?”
“Football, and not even that good!”
“Okay, fine, the French are terrible.” I watch as one of the young men finishes his cigarette, tosses the butt, and gets up. He talks animatedly into a phone. I check the tablet in my lap as text scrolls across the screen. “I think they’re about to move.”
“They should’ve stuck with Napoleon, is what I’m saying. Why exile your greatest leader? Did you know Waterloo was the first battle Napoleon had to fight without his top aide Berthier? He died a few days earlier.”
“Poor guy.”
“Imagine if Berthier lived and Napoleon had won. The world might be different.”
“It might be French.” I get up and knock Daniel’s feet off the table. “You’re drawing too much attention. Come on, they’re moving.”
The two young men get on their bikes and ride off into traffic. Daniel keeps pace with me as I jog over to where our rental car is parked against the curb. It’s a black BMW, barely a car really, more like a souped-up go-kart. I hand Daniel my tablet and pull out while he gives me directions, the tracking app keeping tabs.
Paris traffic is a nightmare. The streets are old and small. I’m not used to driving in these conditions, but I keep up with the bikes anyway. They don’t seem to be in a hurry and I can’t figure out where they’re going. Daniel reads out directions lazily, frowningat the screen and out the window, squinting at the midday sun. A part of me wishes Nika were here, but mostly I’m happy she’s back at the hotel enjoying a nice spa day while half my men keep her guarded and safe.
“They pulled in that way,” Daniel says, pointing at a narrow alleyway between a cafe and a bakery. “Car won’t fit.”
“Fucking bikes.” I find a spot and pull over in front of a fire hydrant. “We better be fast.”
“Who cares if it gets towed?” Daniel hops out of the car, absently touching the gun at the small of his back. “Did you know he died mysteriously?”
“What?” I shade my eyes, eyeing the alley mouth. Why the hell did those guys head inside? We’ve been tracking them all day from one location to the next. They always do the same thing: stop on a stoop, smoke, talk, make calls, hand off a package, and move on. But this feels different, like they’re breaking from the routine.
“Berthier. Napoleon’s man. Nobody knows what happened to him.”
I turn my head. “You’re still talking about that?”
“He was trapped, honestly, rejected by both Napoleon for conspiring with the Bourbons, and the Bourbons for being too much Napoleon’s man. He was under house arrest when he fell out of his window and died.”
“Seriously? Just fell out?”
“Yep, and nobody has any idea how or why. Accident, suicide, murder, could be any of them.”
“Huh. That’s actually interesting.”
“Lots of interesting shit happened around Napoleon.” We approach the entry to the alleyway. Daniel pauses, peering ahead. “You need to read more.”
“When I’m Dragon, I’ll pick up a biography.”
“Good idea.” He meets my eye, grins, and draws his gun.
