Paris Love Match

Chapter 4





Piers slammed the taxi door and sank into a seat that had long since given up any effort to support its occupants. “Hotel Lafayette, si vous—”

The opposite rear door whipped open. Piers’ mouth froze half-open with his tongue poking out. His forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows inched closer together. The face of an angel stared at him and he glimpsed the mesmerizing curve of a tight-fitting skirt and long legs as she bounded into the taxi. The angel leaned back in the seat and undid the top button of a business suit. His thoughts danced uncomfortably between modesty and wanting to look at her cleavage.

She ran a hand through her long, jet-black hair, flipped one side over her ear, and turned to look at him with deep mocha eyes. She smiled, big and broad, intense and confident, a full thousand watts. Her high cheekbones and soft lips underlined her angelic presence. Tiny dimples rippled as she opened her mouth to speak.

Piers held his breath as the sight of her paralyzed his voice.

“Get out,” she said.

Piers blinked in shock. “What?”

“Get the f*ck out.”

“What?” The wattage had gone from her smile, but Piers still feared his heart might stop as he looked at her. “But I—”

She leaned across him and yanked at the door handle on his side. “Go on, get out.”

The sounds of Paris wafted in through the open door, a hundred languages, all spoken at once.

“I beg your pardon, but I was here first.”

“And?”

“Well, doesn’t that mean it’s my taxi?”

The voices outside turned to shouts.

She shook her head.

Piers sighed. “I hate to be rude, but I was seated before you arrived, and I was giving the driver the address when you got in.”

She huffed. “You are being rude. In Paris there is a certain etiquette regarding taxis.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Etiquette?”

She gave a patronizing smile. “I started for the taxi before you. That means it’s my taxi.”

The driver leaned back over his seat. “Will one of you tell me where we’re going?”

Her eyes remained locked on Piers. “I saw it first. And you’re just some tourist. Get out. I live here. I need a taxi.”

“Please. One of you tell me where we’re going,” the driver said, agitated.

Piers glanced at the driver. “Hotel La—”

She waved her hand in front of his face. “Non, non. Rue de—”

There was more shouting outside the cab then a large, wet man dived headlong through the open door and across the rear seat. The man rolled around, his elbows and knees digging into Piers. The girl lurched away from them.

Piers opened his mouth, but his throat closed up at the sight of a gun in the man’s hand. His heart thumped hard against his ribs. His arms locked solid and his legs felt like lead. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

The man waved the gun at the driver. “Vite, vite! Drive! Go!”

The driver turned around slowly, his eyes wide and magnetically attracted to the gun.

Piers glimpsed the girl moving her hand toward the door handle. She hadn’t reached it before he heard strange popping sounds behind them and the car’s rear window exploded in a storm of tiny daggers.

“Shit!” She yelled as she rolled forward into the footwell.

The man fired two shots through the hole where the rear window had been. “F*cking go!”

Piers slapped his hands over his ears. He’d never heard a real gun fired. His head rang and his ears hurt. He thought the girl was screaming, but he couldn’t be sure. It seemed like every tin drum in the world was making a noise in his ear at once.

The car fishtailed away from the curb and the man lurched to one side, dropping his phone. The driver huddled down, only the top of his head visible above the dashboard.

The man struggled over Piers and grabbed for his phone as it slid around on the floor. He missed it, turned, and fired another shot through the rear window.

The driver took a right-hand corner fast. Piers slid across the seat, crushing up against the man and the girl. The man shouted something. Piers pulled himself back onto his side of the car while the man fired more shots. The girl remained in the footwell, her hands clamped over her ears and the man’s phone wedged under her knee.

Piers caught a glimpse of a car behind them struggling to take the same corner. It bounced on the curb, smashed into a wall, and disappeared in a cloud of steam. Behind it, he could see a police car come to a halt and two officers getting out.

Finally, the police to the rescue.

He breathed a sigh of relief until he looked down and saw blood all over his shirt. Shit! He ran his hands over himself. Nothing seemed to hurt. Then he saw the man laid back on the seat, blood pumping from a hole in his shoulder.

“Slow down!” Piers yelled at the driver.

The driver looked back before taking Piers’ advice.

The girl looked up at Piers. “Is he …?”

The man grunted and raised his head. He waved his gun feebly in the driver’s direction. “They … not the police. Keep driving. Don’t stop. No matter what.”

“The guys behind us crashed,” Piers said. “The police are on the scene.”

“They’ll kill the police and get another car. They won’t give up until they get me.”

The sound of an engine screaming grew behind them. The man looked at Piers with an I-told-you-so face. He grimaced as he wrenched himself into an upright position.

Piers kept low and looked to the rear. A police car was gaining on them. The man waved his gun drunkenly and fired.

Now he was in a gunfight with the police?

The police fired back and hit the man. He sank down until his face was level with Piers. His eyes drifted left and right then locked onto the small emblem on Piers’ shirt. He grabbed it, yanking Piers closer, and wedging the gun under his jaw. Piers forced his tongue into the bottom of his mouth as if he could push away the gun.

The man’s lower lip quivered. “F*cking Waterloo.” He shook Piers. “They … they … th—”

His head lolled and his grip on Piers’ shirt was gone in an instant. The gun tumbled to the floor. A dark red stain spread from the center of the man’s chest. His limp body sagged onto the rear seat, slid into the footwell, and slumped against the girl.

She screamed and wriggled out of the gap, her hands flapping at the man. “God, get him off me!”

The driver turned around. “Is he dead?”

Piers saw the taxi veering toward the sidewalk. He wanted to shout, but it was too late. He screwed his eyes shut as the car smashed into an old iron bollard on the side of the road. Piers’ face hammered into the back of the passenger seat. His chest followed, crushing his breath from his body. Pain seared through his hips and shoulders. The girl’s screams filled the car.

The rear of the car lifted off the ground, twisted around and came down onto a line of mopeds and motorbikes. The dead man’s body lurched over Piers. He shoved it aside while the car still rocked on its suspension.

Piers could see the police car screech to a halt behind them. Two men in black suits jumped out, one a giant and the other completely bald. They were shouting, but Piers couldn’t understand what they were saying.

He rolled out of his door. The girl was staring at him, her eyes pleading. He held out his hand. “It’s okay. This way. They’re police. We’re okay.”

“No, no, not the police.” She stared at him, her mouth half open, then hurled herself out of the other side of the car and ran.

The giant barked an order that sounded like Russian and the bald man rugby-tackled the girl, handcuffed her wrists, and dragged her toward the police car.

Piers turned away.

Hell, the dead man was right: they weren’t police. They were the bad guys. They must have been in the car that crashed and taken the police car, like the dead man said. Now they must think he and the girl were involved with the dead guy.

He inched from the car. There was one motorbike left standing, its key dangling temptingly from the ignition switch. He’d never ridden a motorbike before, but he was an engineer, he knew how they worked. The throttle and brake were all that mattered. Surely he could handle that?

He took a deep breath, stepped onto the bike and pushed it forward. The kickstand snapped up and the bike bounced gently on its suspension.

The giant looked in his direction.

Piers smiled as he twisted the ignition key. The bike burst into life with an angry scream. His heart skipped a beat and his hands jerked away from the handlebars as if they were electrified.

Both men stared at him.

“Bonjour,” called Piers.

He dipped the clutch, tapped the bike into gear, and twisted the throttle. The engine revved smoothly. He was surprised how easy it was, just like the video games he played. He was home free.

Then the giant brought up an enormous gun.

Piers ducked and twisted the throttle. The engine screamed and the bike shot forward, into the taxi. With a painful screeching of metal he scraped along the side of the vehicle, gripping the handlebar like a vice and swearing all the way.

The giant’s gun thundered and automatic fire chewed up the bricks in the wall behind him, showering him with dust.

“We’re innocent! We didn’t know the man in the taxi!” Piers yelled, struggling to keep the bike upright. He squeezed the brake, and slid around the front of the car in a cloud of blue smoke, ending up facing the giant. “Don’t shoot!”

The man leveled his gun. Piers ducked lower, pushing his elbows out and losing hold of the brake. The bike pitched up and raced forward, smoke pouring from its rear wheel. He squeezed his knees into the bike desperate to hold on. As he rode past the giant, his outstretched elbow caught the man in the jaw, punching him backward and launching his gun into the air.

“Shit! Sorry, sorry, sorry,” said Piers, but he couldn’t stop the bike.

The bald man threw the girl to the ground and yanked a gun from inside his jacket.

Piers’ knees gave out and he slid off the back of the bike. He hopped along, gripping the handlebars until he finally caught the brake pedal with his foot. The bike toppled forward, wrenching him back onto the seat and flinging his legs out ahead of him. His heel smashed squarely into the bald man’s chest, folding him up and hurling him backward over the police car.

The girl lay curled up on the ground. He brought the bike to a shuddering halt beside her and held out a trembling hand. He had to help her. His voice wavered with his pounding heart. “You … you okay?”

She pulled herself up, swept her bound arms over Piers’ head, and slipped onto the bike behind him.

He unclipped a helmet and held it out for her. As she waved it away, he glimpsed the giant scrabbling for his gun. “No, no. Don’t. We’re innocent. This is just a misunderstanding.”

The girl slid her hand down Piers’ arm and twisted the throttle.

“Noooooooooooo!” screamed Piers.

The bike weaved, its rear tire struggling for grip. The giant swung the gun around toward them. Piers fought to keep his balance as they raced forward. The helmet felt like lead in his hand, and before he could move, it smashed into the man’s face, flooring him.

Piers tossed the helmet and accelerated down the street, the front wheel in the air, the rear pouring smoke, and his heart in his mouth.