Page 62 of Circle of Death
Waiters are circulating through the room, serving succulent-looking morsels on elegant plates and small platters. My stomach is growling. “I seriously doubt that she’s still there. I think she wanted us out of the house so that she could sneak off.”
“So we’re just letting her go?”
“She confirmed that she has the weapon. With any luck, she’ll lead us right to it.”
Margo takes another sip of her wine. “Always the optimist, Lamont.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl in blue excuse herself and slide out of her chair. Her companion leans back from the table, a white napkin resting on his lap. His eyes flick our way. His right hand slides across his thigh.
I jump up and grab Margo’s arm.
“Gun!”
CHAPTER 73
MARGO HITS THE floor hard. I flip our table onto its side and pull her behind it. Bullet holes explode through the wood. Across the room, a bottle shatters in the sommelier’s hands. He flies backward, a hole in his belly. Two waiters topple behind Margo, blood spraying from their necks. From under another table, two women start shrieking.
The shooter is on his feet now, firing from the hip. Machine pistol. Long clip. How many more rounds. Thirty? Forty? He steps forward. I lunge for him. The next shots strike the ceiling. Glass rains down in thick pebbles. I hit him in the midsection and feel the air go out of him. He staggers back, trying to grab me for balance. The gun comes loose. I knock it away. He goes for my neck. I shove my hands up under his armpits and push. He’s two hundred pounds, easy, but I’m so amped he might as well be a sack of groceries.
I force him back to the edge of the room. He tries to get traction, but his soles are smooth and I’ve got momentum on my side. With one final push, I heave him over the glass panel and into the air. He lets out one quick scream—all he has time for. A second later, he hits the top of the Eiffel spire and impales himself on an antenna, twitching like a bug on a pin.
“Lamont!” Margo crawls from behind the table. Her white dress is splattered with blood. Her hair and face, too. I run over and yank her up onto her feet. I scan the room for other threats as we run toward the elevator.
“Go! Don’t look! Just go!”
On the other side of the lobby, the door to the ladies’ room swings open. The girl in the blue dress steps out and stops short. Her hand whips out from behind her back.
She points a gun at Margo’s face.
I reach for the girl’s arm.
Too late!
Margo’s already knocked her out cold.
CHAPTER 74
WE’RE HALFWAY ACROSS the Pont d’lena before we see that nobody’s chasing us. At least not on foot. I look left and right over the Seine, searching for drones in the sky. Nothing but stars.
Behind us, we can hear police sirens heading for the crime scene. My chest is heaving from the run. I stop and sit Margo down on a low wall. She’s panting, too. And barefoot. She kicked off her heels the second we got out of the elevator. Under the light of a street lamp, I can see the streaks of red on her cheeks and forehead. Her white dress is splotched with dark stains. I run my hands over her back and sides.
“Are you sure you’re not hit? No grazes? That’s a ton of blood.”
She shakes her head. “Everybody’s but mine.”
We stand up and start walking. I hold Margo close, hiding the gore as we head for the Trocadéro district on the other side of the river. As we move along the walkway, we pass tourists and locals out for late-night strolls. Just ahead, a college-age kid sets his backpack against the wall and points a small camera toward the river. As we pass, I dip down and lift a plastic water bottle from his backpack sleeve.
On the other side of the bridge, we find an empty bench tucked under a tree in front of a huge park. Margo cups her hands as I pour water into her palms. Using her fingers, she scrubs the blood from her face, leaving light pink smudges on her pale skin. I’ve got a few scrapes of my own, but nothing major. I wet my hands and wipe the blood from her hair. I probe deep into her scalp until my fingers feel something hard.
I give a quick tug. Margo squirms and grabs my hand.
“What the hell, Lamont! Are you operating on my skull?”
I hold up a tiny electronic device encased in an adhesive patch, with a few blond hairs attached. “I need your biosensor.”
“For what?”
“For this.” I drop the sensor onto the ground and crush it with my heel. “Bang. You’re dead.”
