Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel) (25 page)

In the passenger seat, the Asian woman rolled down the window and shoved her arm through. A large-capacity pistol in her hand jumped and spat bullets. Annja couldn’t tell if her captor was missing her intended target or if the gray sedan was armored. The sedan had a lot more power than the car Annja was in. The driver closed the intervening distance quickly, then switched lanes and came up on the driver’s side.

Frustrated and probably out of ammunition, the Asian woman dropped back into the seat and pulled her safety belt back in place. Concern tightened her features as she watched the gray sedan pull up alongside their vehicle. She yelled at the driver, who yelled back at her.

Swerving, the driver pulled the car into the sedan, but the other vehicle was larger and heavier, and all he managed to do was confirm his opponent’s prowess. His own car shuddered and swerved, barely remaining under control.

Through the window, Annja stared at Fiona Pioche. The woman’s hair blew back from her face and her black-lensed sunglasses looked implacable and unyielding. She no longer held the rocket launcher, which Annja was happy to see, but had pistols in both fists. Looking at her, Annja couldn’t help but think how well Fiona must have fit with Roux.

At her age now, Fiona would fit even better with Roux. And that made Annja wonder even more why Roux had left her.

The dapper Georges, Annja could see, was piloting the gray sedan. He dropped back a couple feet, then pulled hard on the wheel. Guessing what was coming, Annja grabbed the nearest safety harness and held tight.

The sedan’s front bumper slammed into the car’s rear hard enough to break the traction the rear wheels had on the pavement. Hammered by the heavier vehicle, the car drifted sideways. The driver tried to recover control, but before he had the chance, Georges swerved and hit the car again.

This time the car tore completely free of the highway and went into a drift. The sedan muscled forward and hit the skidding car broadside this time, driving it in front of it. In the backseat, Annja bounced and ricocheted as the car left the highway and went onto the shoulder.

Dirt and grass flew in a maelstrom around the car as it went off-road. Something under the vehicle, a tire or a strut or the frame, buckled and dug into the ground. Caught for just a moment, the car almost stopped, then it was struck again. Driven forward once more, the car slid sideways, then went up on one side and rolled over onto its side, then onto its top and over onto the other side.

Annja bounced around the car’s interior. The floorboard and the roof weren’t covered in anything soft. The impacts hurt, but she kept her head and focused on escape.

The car warped as it rolled. The back passenger’s-side door warped out of its frame. Standing on the left door, Annja reached up and shoved on the right one. For a moment, the door held, refusing to budge, then it gave way with a loud screech. She reached back and caught the straps of her backpack.

Movement on the other side of the acrylic partition, which was no longer in its housing and now had gaps around it, caught Annja’s attention just as she shoved the broken door open farther. The Asian woman was struggling to shove her pistol into position to fire. The driver was immobile behind the steering wheel, held there by the deployed air bag.

Grabbing the sides of the door frame, Annja heaved herself up and out as the Asian woman started firing. Bullets bounced off the glass and the seat’s reinforced undercarriage. Off balance and desperate, Annja threw herself from the car in an inelegant sprawl. She tried to hit the ground prepared to run, but the soft earth gave way beneath her boots and she went down to one knee.

The driver’s-side door opened and the Asian woman popped up with her pistol in her fist.

Knowing she wouldn’t be able to run without being gunned down, Annja released her hold on the backpack, took a step toward the car, another step on the driveshaft to propel herself upward again and launched a flying snap-kick. Her foot caught the woman in the face and knocked her backward. The pistol fell from her hands and tumbled to the ground. Unconscious, the woman dropped back inside the car.

Annja landed on her feet, listed badly to one side and quickly righted herself. She sprinted for her backpack, then raced up the small incline toward the highway.

The sedan had stopped on the shoulder. The cars Fiona had taken out were a football field away, and the traffic ahead of the accident had mostly kept going. Only a few drivers had pulled over to see if they could help or to gawk. Motorists on the opposite side of the highway were all gawking.

Fiona, Georges and Edmund stood outside the sedan. Evidently they’d been about to come to Annja’s rescue.

Edmund looked enormously relieved. “You’re alive.”

“Of course she’s alive.” Fiona calmly lowered her pistols and smiled at Annja. “She’s made of stern stuff.”

Georges sighed theatrically. “Maybe you could give a smidgen of credit to my driving, eh? I am very good at what I do, Ms. Pioche.”

“Yes, you are, dear man.” Fiona looked down the highway.

In the distance, three men raced toward them and flashes lit up their hands. A moment later dirt clods lifted from the nearby ground and sparks leaped from the sedan’s top. They heard the harsh pistol cracks shortly after.

“Maybe you could postpone the mutual admiration fest till after we’ve made our escape.” Edmund held the rear door open for Annja.

Annja slid inside, quickly followed by Edmund, who slammed the door shut. Part of the backseat lay forward, revealing the armament hidden there.

Fiona passed the rocket launcher back to Edmund. “Be a dear and put that away. I don’t think we’ll be needing it any further.”

Gingerly, Edmund took the weapon and shoved it into the recess.

More bullets thudded against the back of the sedan, but they didn’t penetrate. Edmund ducked at the sounds, though. He glanced at Annja. “I know the glass is bulletproof, but I can’t help it.”

“It’s not something you get used to easily.” Annja had taken cover, as well.

“I have no wish to ever get used to it.”

Georges pulled the sedan back onto the highway and roared into the night that now shrouded Paris.

25

Forty minutes later, Georges pulled to a stop in front of a small electronics store on rue Marx Dormoy in the 18th arrondissement in Paris just down from a streetlamp. The neighborhood was also known as Montmartre and was equally famous and infamous in history.

Georges parked the car and opened the door. “Come, come. We must step lively now.”

Fiona got out at once and stood on the sidewalk, her sunglasses pushed up onto her head. She watched the lighted street as a parade of vehicles flowed through.

A lanky African-American youth in a soccer shirt and maroon hoodie stepped out of the shadows. “Georges.”

Georges’s face lit with a smile. “Ah, Hasan, it is good to see you. You are on time tonight.”

“I try,
mon ami.
” The young man spoke in a lilting accent that Annja placed as West African.

“It is good.” Georges tossed the car keys into the air.

Hasan caught the keys with a quick flicker of movement and never broke stride as he walked toward the car. “What do you wish done with the vehicle?”

“Take it to Gardiah.”

“And what should I tell him?” Hasan opened the sedan’s door and glanced at the scars left by the bullets. He got in.

“That it needs a new face and a new name, okay?”

“Okay.”

“There are things in the back I will need. You know the address?”

“I do. I will have them there in a few hours. When I am certain I am not followed.” Hasan glanced over his shoulder and pulled out into traffic.

Georges turned to Fiona. “The car has to disappear as we do, true?”

“Of course.”

“As you have heard, your things will arrive shortly. If not, I will replace them.”

“You are as capable as ever, my friend.”

Georges waved down a cab. “I have suitable quarters for you a short distance away. Hasan will meet us there with your things. Taking a few cabs along the way will ensure we are hard to follow.”

The cab pulled to the curb and Georges opened the back door for Fiona.

* * *

FOUR CAB RIDES LATER, ALL of them sandwiched between walks of a few blocks—and sometimes split up into two groups of two and a mix of one and three to keep the numbers off in case the police were looking for four—they arrived at the studio apartments Georges had leased for their stay. Although they’d taken different cabs, none of them within sight of the other, they’d remained within the 18th arrondissement.

“The apartment will not be up to hotel standards, I’m afraid.” The lower floor housed a shoe repair shop and a dress shop. Both businesses were currently closed and had steel curtains pulled down over the doors and windows.

“I’m more interested in privacy than in the accommodations.” Fiona studied the street.

Edmund walked beside Annja. The air was cool enough that she felt a chill. Traffic noises and shouts of passersby and residents rang around them. Neon lights shone dimly from a bar on the corner and a small Chinese restaurant across the street. American rock and roll competed with Japanese pop and some Delta blues. Paris had always been an eclectic city. That was one of the things Annja loved about it.

The neighborhood was one of the rougher districts in the city. The street was paved, not cobbled, and some of the surrounding buildings had been made over, but everything remained old. It wasn’t too hard for Annja to close her eyes and imagine the city as it had been two hundred years ago.

The 18th arrondissement had been the eye of the storm of political unrest in the city since the mid-1800s. The Paris Commune, with its focus on the rising power of the working class, had taken root here.

Edmund matched his steps with Annja’s. “You’ve been to Paris before?”

“A few times.” Annja had found the sword not far from where they now were, and she’d bearded Roux in his home outside Paris. Since then she’d visited Roux here on a few occasions, and come on her own, as well.

“Then you know this isn’t a very good neighborhood.”

“I think we’ll be safe enough with Georges.”

A frown knitted Edmund’s brows.

Crime had favored the 18th arrondissement since the influx of workers had settled here to work at the coal mines and the factories that sprang up with the Industrial Revolution.

“What I’m trying to say,” Edmund continued, “is that Laframboise may have spies everywhere, and he most assuredly has them in this place.”

“We knew we were taking a chance in coming to Paris.” Annja glanced at the traffic but saw no one giving them any special attention. “Fiona trusts Georges, and he risked his life to get me back. I think we’re in good hands.”

Edmund nodded but he wasn’t happy.

* * *

THE APARTMENT DIDN’T HAVE much in the way of flash, but it held all the creature comforts they would need. Like a proud real estate agent, Georges conducted a brief tour of the rented rooms.

The apartment had two small bedrooms and a common bath, but Georges assured Edmund that the couch pulled out into a comfortable bed. There was also cable television and internet. A sprig of flowers sat on the dining table just off the small kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” Georges stood beside a pantry and waved, like a game show host presenting a prize. When he opened the door, shelves laden with canned and boxed items stood in neat rows. “The refrigerator is well stocked, also. Meat. Fresh vegetables. And there is a Russian bakery only two blocks away that makes wonderful breads.” He closed the pantry door. “It will suffice, yes?”

Fiona crossed to Georges and kissed him on the cheek. “This is perfectly lovely. More than I had expected.”

“Good, good.” Georges rubbed his hands together. “But we should see to your armory needs.”

“Please.”

On the way out of the kitchen, Annja picked up a green apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. As she followed she bit into the apple, relishing the tart, sweet taste. Edmund still didn’t look happy.

Georges apologized as he led the way to the back bedroom. “If this had been one of the usual safe houses I’ve used, I would have had a much better hiding place for these things. And more built-in security measures.”

Fiona nodded in understanding. “But if this had been one of your usual haunts, someone might know about it and might take an interest in what we’re doing here. I’d rather we remain off-grid as much as possible.”

Concern filled Georges’s face as he came to a stop at the back wall. “Laframboise is a most dangerous man, Fiona.” He drew the heavy drapes over the room’s only window, plunging the room into near-darkness till he turned on a bedside lamp.