She blinked at him, mute, then stared down at herself and passed out without a sound.
He eased her down onto the roof. Her nose was bleeding, and she had a cut lip. He ripped her shirt open and pulled it down. The man had shot her in the arm. A bullet to the biceps, through and though, into the meat of the muscle, not the bone, thank the good Lord above.
He ripped the sleeve off and used it as a tourniquet, then ran his hands over the rest of her body. No more injuries. She’d be okay. He pulled her against him for a moment, thankful and quiet, then stood up and hoisted her over his shoulder. He heard a whisper of a laugh.
“That tickles.”
“Stay still. I need to get you down the stairs.” She relaxed against his back, and he carried her down the stairs to their room.
Their suite looked like a war zone. At least the sofa was still in one piece. He laid her down, and she looked up at him and smiled.
“Aren’t we a pair? Do I look as bad as you do?”
He smiled back. “I don’t want to look. Stay still, Mike. I hear the sirens. We’re going to be crawling with cops any second now. Did you call it in?”
“Yes. Before I went up after you to the roof. Let me sit up.” She realized then she had a split lip from the man’s fist in her face when she first opened the door.
“Now who’s being the tough one?” he asked, but helped her up, loosened the tourniquet, happy to see that the wound was bleeding only slightly.
He said, “We’re going to have matching stitches.”
She wanted to tell him she would have more fun checking his stitches than he would hers, but she didn’t. She said, “Who was that man?”
“I don’t know. He’s dead. Look, it couldn’t be helped. I still can’t believe he wouldn’t give up.”
She couldn’t believe it, either.
“I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do. It’s brutal.”
Nicholas said, “It’s Filipino Kali with a bit of karate thrown in. I’ll teach you, if you’d like.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Maybe you’d better wait to see some of my moves first.”
83
Ritz Paris
15 Place Vend?me
Saturday evening
Hotel security wasn’t happy to have a shootout on their roof and a dead man on the street at the front doors. The local flic from the commissariat de police, who introduced himself as Monsieur L’Agent Foulard, insisted on interrogating them for twenty minutes, despite their badges. It was only Menard’s arrival that put a halt to it.
After Foulard was gone, Menard said, “I was told your former suite needed a lot more than a simple dusting and clean towels. Do tell me how you managed to end up on the roof with an assassin.”
Nicholas said, “Fewer people on the roof than in the lobby.”
Menard grinned, showing a gold back tooth. He turned to Mike. “Agent Caine, I hear you’re being difficult. You should be treated at the hospital.”
Mike said, “I think we’re better off sticking together and staying here. Whoever’s after us isn’t going to give up simply because we’ve killed three of his men.”
Menard said, “We have an ID on the two men who ended up in Lake Geneva—César Arnault and Claude Soutane, local freelance bad guys.”
Nicholas said, “We think we know who hired them. A man named Saleem Lanighan, a British national who makes his home in France.”
“I know this man. He is big in the art world. What makes you think he is behind this?”
“Everything is pointing his way. If you could trace the men in Geneva to him, that would pretty much nail it. The man who went off the roof wasn’t local muscle, he was a pro. Tough, vicious, and committed to seeing us dead.”
“I heard the flics mention the name O’Brien. If this is the same man I know, you’re lucky to be alive. Talk about a pro—he’s never failed before tonight.”
Menard rose. “I need not remind the two of you to take care. Agent Caine, do as the doctor tells you. Keep your arm in a sling, and no more fights—at least for a couple of days.”