Paris Love Match

Chapter 30





At four-thirty, Piers parked the blue Citroën on Petit Quai. He reversed it into the narrow space, ready for a quick getaway, and took a large duffel from the trunk. He rapped on the windows and heard a rat-a-tat reply. Satisfied, he locked the car, placed the keys under a rock beside the driver’s side door, and walked along the embankment road to Pont au Double.

He looked over the bridge. The narrow ledge looked even smaller as he contemplated jumping onto it with the heavy bag. He waited until a man with a dog left the bridge, then rolled over the wall. He gripped hard as he lowered his feet to the ledge, but it was still a six-foot drop. He shuffled the bag tighter onto his shoulder, held his breath, and let go.

His heart made one single, colossal beat, and his hands scraped the centuries-old stone before his feet smacked on the ledge. He grabbed at the support, and shoved his face against the stone, forcing his center of gravity inward to stop him from toppling into the water. The bag rocked on his back until he stretched his shoulders and dampened its motion.

He shuffled underneath the arch of the bridge where the ledge widened. Holding onto an iron pipe that stuck out from the wall, he lowered the duffel to the ground and slipped off his coat. With frequent curses, he managed to get the oxygen tank onto his back. He tucked the mouthpiece over his shoulder and into his shirt, out of sight but within easy reach. His coat barely covered the tank, but as he pulled it around he convinced himself that it would look like a badly-fitting jacket. He shuffled out of his shoes with ease, but lost one of the flippers in the water as he tried to put them on. Satisfied he was ready, he huddled down on the ledge and waited.

As dawn broke, the chatter of pedestrians joined the rumble of cars and lorries. He checked his phone and used the GPS coordinates to create a list of commands for the cranes. At eight o’clock, he saw Kuznik on the left bank, studying the bridge with binoculars. Piers buried his face between his knees. He knew his coat looked like crap and he probably did, too. With luck, the man would assume he was a tramp sleeping off a night’s drinking. He didn’t dare check for several minutes, and when he did glance back in the man’s direction, he’d gone.

At five minutes to nine, a man walked down onto Petit Quai. He checked over the blue Citroën and tried the doors before making a phone call. Thirty seconds later, Brunwald’s black Mercedes swept onto Petit Quai.

Piers heart raced. A wave of heat swept over him. His shirt stuck to his skin. He wiped his hands on his coat. It was show time. All he had to do was follow his plan. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. If this went wrong, Sidney would pay with her life. The air seemed to leave his body and leave his legs weak.

He took a deep breath and checked his phone one last time. A button labeled “Collect Payloads” glowed. He pressed it. The button flashed “Collecting (2) Payloads … Stand By,” and from the corner of his eye he glimpsed movement high above.

His heart thumped and he took deep breaths, oxygenating his body and trying to calm his nerves. If he could get Sidney away from Brunwald and his men, then things would be all right. But it was a big if.

He took one last deep breath and stood up. A man on the opposite bank turned toward him. A moment later the man on Petit Quai turned in his direction, too. Piers swallowed. Obviously, they had radios.

Piers dialed Brunwald. He answered on the first ring. “Don’t do anything stupid, my friend. I still have your girl.”

“Don’t you do anything stupid either.” Piers took the bag of diamonds from his inside pocket and held it at arm’s length, out over the Seine. “Tell your goons to back off. You shoot me and the diamonds disappear forever.”

Piers saw the man on Petit Quai cover his mouth and talk into a microphone. The man on the opposite bank held his hands up, then laid them on the embankment wall.

“Good,” Piers said. “Now let her go.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you have a man on either side of this bridge. Let her go and they can walk over here and take the diamonds, easy as that.”

Piers waited thirty seconds and was about to speak again, when the rear door of the Mercedes opened. Sidney got out along with a man holding her by the arm.

“Tell her to take the car. The key’s under a rock by the door.” Piers said.

Piers heard Brunwald’s curt orders drift over the water. The man marched Sidney to the car and let her go. She picked up the key and unlocked the door.

Piers hit the second button on his phone’s screen. The words “Delivering (1) Payload … Stand By” flashed. He forced himself not to look over to the giant cranes, but in his peripheral vision he caught something large and yellow, moving fast.

Sidney started the car with a lot of grinding noises from the starter motor. The man on Petit Quai pointed a gun into the car.

Piers swallowed. “Don’t do anything stupid or I drop them.”

“You wouldn’t make it off that bridge alive,” Brunwald said.

“And you wouldn’t have the diamonds.” Piers shook the bag at arms length over the water.

There was a long silence, then the man lowered his gun. Sidney revved the car. The engine screamed and screamed. Piers eyes fixated on the Citroën. Why wasn’t it moving? Shit. It’d been fine when he drove it. The engine revs dropped. “Just get out and walk,” he whispered. “Just go, go.” He wiped his forehead. The engine revs started again, this time the car shot forward, up the slope, and screeched to a halt at the embankment road. The man on the quay ran after her, pulling out his gun. Piers willed her on as he saw more yellow filling the sky. To his horror, the car raced backward. The man barely moved before the Citroën hit him. He tumbled over the trunk, rolled off, and down the slope. Then with a squealing of tires and a blaring of horns, Sidney lurched out into the traffic on the embankment road.

Yes! Piers bounced on his toes. Yes, yes! She’d made it. She was free from Brunwald and his goons. They might try to go after her, but he was prepared for that. He wanted to punch the air, but instead he pushed the third button on his phone, and the words “Delivering (1) Payload … Stand By” flashed in red.

He heard scrabbling noises from the top of the bridge.

Pain erupted in his leg. He collapsed to his knees, grunting. A storm of stone chips exploded around him.

He dropped his phone to grab his leg. There was blood on his pants and his thigh burned like hell. He bit down on his cheek. From the corner of his eye, he saw a yellow blur moving fast. Above him he saw boots dangling over the bridge.

He had to go. His leg howled in protest, but he shuffled to the water’s edge.

There was yelling from Petit Quai. He glimpsed the crane holding the giant yellow dumpster twenty feet above Brunwald’s Mercedes. The crane executed the last of his instructions, and released its payload. There was a yellow blur and the dumpster smashed into the engine compartment of Brunwald’s Mercedes. The car twisted around under the weight. One of the front wheels sheared off and bounced into the Seine.

In front of him, a very black suit followed the boots, and Kuznik dropped onto the ledge in front of Piers. The man’s massive shoulders filled the narrow walkway. Piers shoved the bag of diamonds into his coat, and rolled into the Seine as Kuznik leapt forward, his arms outstretched.

Piers felt the ice-cold water grip him like a metal band around his lungs. The burning pain in his leg was blotted out by the paralyzing cold. He snatched for the mouthpiece to his oxygen tank. His knees scraped against the stone bridge. He kicked with his legs, but couldn’t move them. Pain seared through his wound and he felt himself being lifted out of the water. He grabbed at the slippery rocks under the waterline, but in a moment he was crashing onto the narrow ledge.

Kuznik swung his boot into Piers’ stomach. He felt as if a spear had been driven right through him. He doubled up, choking and gasping for breath. Bright lights danced in his vision and he squeezed his stomach with his arms to numb the pain.

He felt himself being lifted up by the lapels of his coat. He dodged left in time to blunt a blow to the face. He grabbed Kuznik’s arm, but the man wrenched it back, throwing Piers to the ground. Kuznik pulled a knife and Piers scrabbled backward, deeper under the bridge. His coat caught under his hands, and he fought to stop falling onto his back. Kuznik reversed the knife in his hands and stepped forward. Piers heard the water lapping under the bridge. He was right beside it, but if he jumped, Kuznik would surely come after him. If he was going to escape the man, he had to stop him first.

Piers wrenched off his coat and whipped it around across the front of the Kuznik. The man stepped forward, slashing the coat into jagged halves with one sweep of his knife. Piers slid one arm out of the oxygen bottle’s harness and flipped the bottle around his front. Kuznik lunged forward. Piers brought his knee up, lifting the bottle into the man’s face. The impact felt like part slap, part crunch, but the man’s long arms stretched around it. Piers felt a light flick that built to a fire raging across his chest.

Kuznik grunted, rammed the bottle back at Piers, and slashed again. Piers dodged the blade by inches. His chest hurt like hell, but he swung the bottle from his other shoulder, freeing himself from the harness. Kuznik smashed his fists down on the bottle, ripping it from Piers’ hands, and drove it, top-first, into the centuries-old stone of the bridge. There was a tearing of metal and a brief hiss, followed by a screaming roar. Kuznik didn’t even move. Jet propelled by the gas pressure, the bottle smashed into his groin, doubling him over in an instant. He roared and slashed out. Piers grabbed the bottle’s harness, sweeping it behind him, over his head, and down onto the giant’s back. Kuznik grunted hard and dropped to his knees. He slashed at Piers’ ankles. Piers leapt backward and swung the bottle again, aiming for the man’s side. Kuznik brought his arm up to protect himself, but the momentum was too much. The bottle hammered into his forearm with a sickening crack. Kuznik roared and sank to the floor, his forearm unnaturally bent. Piers threw the bottle down on the man’s groin, grabbed the bag of diamonds, and leapt from the ledge.

The water’s cold was numbing. The pain in his leg and chest grew into a fire that threatened to overwhelm him. He gasped and kicked with his good leg. His face dipped under the water. He thrashed with his hands, pulling himself just far enough out of the water to snatch a breath.

The current was pulling him along, away from Kuznik and his knife. But, as he looked up, he realized his was heading out of the protection of the bridge. In a moment, he’d be visible above the water.

And Brunwald’s men wouldn’t let him drift away alive.