The Warhol Incident (16 page)

Scrambling up and
barely able to move, I did a quick assessment, looking for a hiding spot or weapon. There were a few crates in the back corner, and I crouched behind them while I finished cutting my hands free. My sleeves were red, and my wrists were swollen, burned, and bloody. Keeping the knife poised in my right hand, I reached into my bra for the earwig. It was worth a shot. I turned it on but heard nothing but static. Fuck.

The double doors opened, and
Abelard barked orders in French. I needed an escape plan. Going straight for the loading dock provided no cover. I would be spotted immediately. The warehouse had been used for storage of some kind. It was large, and I ducked behind some long-abandoned crates. Glancing around, I had a decent shot of moving from crate to crate until my means for escape seemed more plausible. But I needed something better to fight off my attackers than just a knife. How come people didn’t leave loaded machine guns lying around?

Creeping around the edge
of the warehouse, I was going from one set of crates to another as I remained out of sight. Abelard’s men were desperately hunting for me. Searching for other exits, I didn’t see any air ducts, windows, or anything that might lead to the outside world. Staying inside was a death sentence. The only plus was each of the men searched for me alone, and as far as I could tell, none of them were armed. In the dim lighting, I stayed in the shadows to prolong the inevitable. Everything from here on out was about buying time.

As I slunk
around a corner, I stumbled on a metal object. The resulting clang drew attention from two of Abelard’s men. Shit. I reached down and located the metal pipe I tripped over. I might as well go out swinging. Scurrying around the corner, I pressed myself against the wall, waiting. One of the men peeked around the corner. My knife was folded and shoved in my pocket, but the pipe was in both hands like a bat. My swing connected with the man’s jaw, and he went down instantly. Maybe I should have been a baseball player, much safer job. A second goon witnessed the attack and grabbed the end of my pipe before I could connect with him. I gave it a hard tug, and when he pulled back, I let go and lunged at him.

We were
rolling on the ground as I attempted to land as many well-placed punches and kicks as I could. I was acutely aware that I needed to finish this and find another place to hide when the man got to his feet and threw me against the wall. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my knife and stabbed him just below the ribs. His grip loosened, providing the perfect opportunity to regroup. Finding the discarded pipe in the darkness, I took out his kneecap. He was kneeling on the ground, howling in pain, when I swung again for his head. He was either dead or unconscious, and at the moment, as long as he didn’t get back up, I didn’t care.

Retrieving
my knife, I ran toward the back wall of the warehouse. It was time to go. Although my initial count of Abelard’s resources showed only three other guys, there were still another two or three in the warehouse. They were fast approaching, and I lost sight of Abelard and Jean-Pierre.

Reaching
the back wall, I found a few blacked out windows. I was just about to smash through one of them when I heard sirens. This better be the goddamn cavalry, I thought bitterly as I used the pipe to shatter the window, running the metal cylinder around the edges to break away all the remaining shards of glass. I needed to get out of here, now. The men that were closing in appeared to have retreated at the sound of sirens.

Grasping the window frame,
I boosted myself up toward freedom, but someone grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me down. Knife at the ready, I spun around and confronted Jean-Pierre. He adopted a fighting stance, and we carefully assessed one another.

“It’s over,” I told him.
“The way I see it, you can make a break for it and be on the run forever, or you can surrender and turn state’s evidence. You used to be one of the good guys.” I wasn’t sure if I could reason with him, but in a fight, he would win. He was stronger, more thoroughly trained, and hadn’t just gone three rounds with an electric-chair wannabe.

“Go,” Jean-Pierre said fi
rmly. I didn’t move. “Allez!” he screamed. I turned and pulled myself out the broken window, noticing the men that had been in pursuit were now crumpled in unconscious heaps on the ground. Did Jean-Pierre take them out and assist my escape? I couldn’t be sure, but right now, I had to get out of here. Climbing out the window, I landed face first on the ground and was immediately surrounded by the police tactical unit.

They were shouting
in French, so I stayed where I was, not moving. “You’re late,” I yelled at them. There were at least ten weapons trained on me as a couple of guys held me roughly against the ground, handcuffed me, and secured my knife. Brilliant, arrest the goddamn hostage. If I hadn’t just been through the wringer, I might have said as much; instead, I remained face down on the ground until I heard Ryan’s Irish accent breaking through all the French.

“Get off of her,” he w
as getting closer, “and take those bloody cuffs off. Now.” Someone gently released the cold metal from my battered and bleeding wrists.

“What happened?
You stopped for a fucking croissant on the way here?” I growled as Ryan helped me to my feet. “I thought you had my back.”

“I’m here now.”
He ushered me out of the danger zone, throwing a jacket emblazoned with the word ‘police’ over my shoulders, and placed me into one of the SUVs parked on the outskirts of the strike zone.

“Gustav’s not dead.
He’s inside, or he was inside. Abelard, too.” I was relaying as much pertinent information as I could.

“
I know. Agent Jablonsky phoned us. We’ll get them,” Ryan promised. He assessed my appearance. “You okay?”

“Do I look okay?”
He gently rolled one of my blood-soaked sleeves up, looking at my wrist.

“Donough,” a voice called, and he turned.
“There’s something inside you need to see.”

“Go.
I’ll be fine.” He looked at me uncertainly, before heading for the warehouse. I shut my eyes and rested my head against the car seat. I wasn’t dead. Maybe run over by a steamroller and set on fire, but not dead.

“Madame Parker.
” Reneaux was standing in front of me. I didn’t know how long I had been sitting in the SUV or how long he had been standing there. A substantial amount of time must have passed since most of the police vehicles were gone. “It seems you are evidence.” I wasn’t sure if Reneaux’s English was a little faulty or my ability to process words was impaired. “How do you feel about going to the crime lab, where a medic will meet you, instead of the hospital?”

“Okay.
” I would have agreed to anything at this point. Reneaux nodded, and Ryan got in on the driver’s side. Turning in the seat so I was facing forward, Reneaux shut my door.

“What happene
d back there?” Ryan asked, flipping on the siren and driving at breakneck speed to the police station. I gave him the play-by-play, knowing I would be repeating this story at least another few times.

“Did you get him?
Both of them?”

He
turned and looked at me sadly. “We have Gustav and quite a few people from Abelard’s inner circle.”

“Abelard?”
I hoped his ass was shot full of holes.

“He wasn’t there.”

“That so
n-of-a-bitch got away,” I shrieked.

“I promise
we will track him to the bloody ends of the earth if we have to. The motherfucker will not get away again.” The rest of the ride continued in silence. I was exhausted. My head was still pounding, and every inch of my body ached. It was almost five a.m. I spent nearly six hours trapped in that warehouse. No wonder I felt like shit. Apparently a reasonable timeframe to move in included figuring in the time difference between home and Paris.

Ryan parked the SUV and came around to open my door
. His eyes examined the cut on my chest, my opened and bloodied shirt, and my wrists. “It’s been a hell of a night. Maybe I should take you to the emergency room instead.” Before I could respond, a group of police personnel had gathered in preparation for evidence collection and to take my statement.

“Too late now,” I muttered as he helped me
out of the vehicle. Immediately, I was greeted by a woman who worked in evidence collection and an overly friendly female EMT. I was ushered into one of the larger lab areas where my shirt was confiscated. Anything covered in blood was being considered evidence, which seemed ridiculous, but whatever made these people happy. It’s not like I needed a ripped, bloodstained shirt as a reminder of tonight. After all, I had all of my fond memories that would never go away, no matter how hard I tried to repress them. All of my injuries were photographed, from my wrists to the burns on my chest to the slice along my clavicle.

Someone e
lse came in to question me while the medic hooked up an EKG to see if I sustained any muscle damage to my heart. Thankfully, the test came out negative. She then drew blood for a toxicology screening, which would probably come back positive for something. After being subjected to a basic neurological exam to rule out a concussion or other head injury, my blood pressure was taken, and I was allowed to put on a shirt, which they apparently stocked for this exact purpose. My wrists were bandaged, and I was permitted to clean up.

Finally, I was
escorted upstairs where I gave Reneaux the rundown for his official debrief. When that was completed, I located a couch down the hall from the locker rooms. Ryan found me sprawled out with my eyes closed.

“
I didn’t know where you went,” he said, sitting on the edge next to me. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a pair of those pink fuzzy cuffs when the tactical team got too overzealous doing their jobs.” I opened one eye and looked at him.

“What a pity.”
I shut my eyes.

“Your
medical report came back,” he continued, not getting the hint I didn’t feel like talking. “You tested positive for chloroform. You’re also anemic, dehydrated, and most likely suffering from exhaustion. They wanted to hook you up to an I.V. to replenish your fluids, but I warned them you would probably tell them exactly what they could do with that I.V.” I looked at him and snorted.

“
How is it you already know me so well?” I offered a brief grin, imagining inflicting my own torture upon nurses who didn’t understand I had been through enough tonight. “And you forgot the part about how everything aches, but I can’t complain. After all, I’m still breathing.” I was being sarcastic. Ryan remained tight-lipped but got up and bought a bottle of water from the vending machine.

“Drink
this.”

“I was hoping for something a lot
stronger,” I muttered, but I obediently unscrewed the cap and took a sip. I really was thirsty and in need of replacing all the fluids I had lost. “What time is it?”

“It
’s almost ten. The evidence team is still working the scene, but we’ve finished processing Gustav and four of Abelard’s guys. The fifth is in intensive care. They’re uncertain if he’ll pull through.” He cocked his head to the side and studied me. “You’re more lethal than you look.” I chuckled despite the seriousness of the situation. My emotions were off kilter from lack of sleep. Plus, I was stuck at the police station until everything was processed, especially since I had yet to make or sign an official statement of my own. It was going to be a long day.

“Madame Parker,” Reneaux appea
red at the end of the hallway, “there is an urgent phone call for you from Agent Jablonsky. You may use my office.” I stood up and shrugged at Ryan before following Reneaux down the hallway. He handed me the phone and went out to the squad room to give me some privacy.

“Mark?
” I asked.

“Parker, goddamn, I’ve been up all night
, trying to track you down. What happened? You’re making this old man worry. Why didn’t you call me back?”

“Sorry, I lost track of time, hanging a
round,” I replied bitterly. Slumping into Reneaux’s chair, I hoped he wouldn’t mind. “I’m probably not allowed to discuss things at the moment, but I’ll fill you in when I get back. If you need anything, leave a message at the hotel. It’s the only phone I have.”

“I’ve been hearing a lot of c
hatter. Are you okay?”

“S
till breathing,” I responded before disconnecting. Reneaux had a nice little sofa against the wall of his office, and I looked at it sadly as I went to thank him for the use of his phone.

“Please, Madame,
” Reneaux was being generous, ushering me back into his office, “make yourself comfortable. I’ll have a translator and officer sent up to take your statement and file a report, and then we’ll find someone to give you a ride back to your hotel to get cleaned up before we interrogate Abelard’s cohorts.”

Crawling
onto the sofa, I tried to get comfortable. I understood why they needed to dot the I’s and cross the T’s, but I was tired and achy. Why couldn’t we do this all tomorrow? Reneaux took a seat behind his desk and began typing a report as we waited for the officer and translator to appear. Ryan escorted them in and brought me another bottle of water and a sandwich. He felt guilty for not getting there sooner. Oh well.

I ate as I relayed the entire story once again to the officers.
Everything I said was written in English and then transcribed in French. Life would be easier if we had one universal language, but that was probably just my exhaustion being bitchy. I reread the entire thing and signed off on it. They cross-referenced the photos of my torture, as they were referring to it, with my statement and placed it all neatly into a case file. Hopefully, the French prosecutor would be satisfied. I wasn’t familiar with France’s judicial system, but as long as I was granted some type of confidential status and not required to appear for the actual proceedings, I didn’t care.

When we were finished
, Ryan gave me a ride to my hotel. We took the elevator up to my room, and he came inside once I opened the door. I just wanted to crawl into bed and never move again.

“Freshen up, we have
to be back in a couple of hours,” he sounded almost as tired as I felt.

“And I thought
the overtime at home was crappy.” I dug through my duffel bag for something to wear that would be comfortable and also professional. “You’ve been on all night. Can’t we just play hooky?”

He
assessed my appearance carefully. “If you want a doctor’s note, I’d be happy to drop you off at the hospital and make sure you are in fact okay. I never trust those EMTs and medics. What the bloody hell do they know?” His voice was sincere, but I shook my head.

“I just want to get this over with as quickly as poss
ible.” I thought about Martin’s offer to use the private jet. “Any way I can get the hell out of here by Friday?” Walking into the bathroom and turning on the water, I plugged the drain so the tub could fill. Then I asked Ryan to cut the bandages off my wrists. The bleeding had long since stopped.

“I’l
l make it happen,” he assured, pulling out his pocket knife, and I looked away as he cut through the medical tape. Blades and bindings were making me squeamish. I glanced at the neatly made bed I hadn’t slept in.

“If y
ou want to catch some shut-eye, feel free.” I went back into the bathroom and closed the door. The hot water helped relax my aching muscles, but it stung my wrists and made the blistered skin on my chest burn more than usual. I was trying very hard not to fall asleep in the bathtub when Ryan knocked on the door.

“You alm
ost ready?” he asked gently. I got out of the tub and dried off.

“Ten minut
es.” I dressed and tied my wet hair back, opening the door and holding out my wrists for him to assess. “I’m not really sure what to do about this. I look like an overzealous suicide attempt gone wrong.”

“Bloody hell.
” He glanced at my wrists, but his eyes were drawn to the burn marks on my chest, clearly visible over the spaghetti strap tank top I was wearing to keep from irritating my skin further. “We should have moved in sooner. Alex, I am so sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
Putting on a jacket, I rolled up the sleeves so Ryan could re-bandage my wrists before picking up my purse and room key. “Let’s get this show on the road.”