A figure climbed over the jagged cement hole out of the cavern. From the silhouette he recognized the Corsican, who was clutching a duffel bag and headed his way.
No way was he supposed to be down here. He should be waiting in the car to move the goods. Zacharié’s hands shook. It all came together now—Jules had used the Corsican to betray them.
But Zacharié had the file Jules wanted. His mind raced, debating whether he should escape, make a run for it through the sewer. Risk everything?
But that would put Marie-Jo in more danger and catch him up in a world of revenge. He had no weapon, no way to defend himself. Seconds, he had seconds to decide.
The Corsican paused, as if listening. Zacharié tried not to breathe. If he ran, he’d be heard the moment his feet splashed through the puddles.
But the Corsican stepped back into the hole.
No way could he trust the Corsican or Jules. He had to act. Wasting no time, Zacharié edged behind the metal sewer door, careful to keep it half open, as Dervier had left it.
A moment later the Corsican’s running footsteps splashed in the water, headed toward the door. Zacharié heard metal on metal, the snick and click, the unmistakable sound of a cartridge loaded. The Corsican was going to kill him, would already have killed him if Zacharié hadn’t been running so far ahead of time. Sweat streamed down Zacharié’s neck. He held his breath, kept his body rigid until he heard footsteps go through.
Un, deux and on trois Zacharié slammed the sewer door shut behind the Corsican.
He tried to flip the bolt back. But it stuck and wouldn’t lock. Pounding and muffled yells sounded from the Corsican on the other side. His arms strained, pushing the bolt down, progressing a centimeter at a time. Grunting and heaving, he felt it wedge into place.
The Corsican would have to scale the two-story stonewalled courtyard to escape, or enter the building and set off the alarms. Zacharié had put him out of commission for now.
Panting, Zacharié ran back to the auction-house cavern to find his team. He skidded on the old tiles, sticky with blood. Horror-struck, he found his childhood friends sprawled among the jewelry glittering in his headlamp. Gunshots to the backs of their heads.
A sob rose in the back of his throat. Jules had betrayed him and his friends, hired the Corsican to seal their deal permanently. Zacharié would have been next. The traitor had escalated from felony to group murder.
Fear ground in his gut. How could he trust that Marie-Jo would be safe? He’d never known Jules to go this far, to take such risks—what was in the file that made him so desperate?
His only bargaining chip was the file in his overalls. No way would he give it up unless he had Marie-Jo. He held the only thing that would keep Marie-Jo alive.
In the Corsican’s duffel bag he found a pair of night-vision goggles, an extra ammo clip, gloves, an alternative lock, cell phone, folded sheets of plastic and even rags to clean up the blood spatter. A pro. Hired to erase all traces. The salaud.
Zacharié shook with anger. Helpless. Why had he believed Jules again? Why didn’t he ever learn?
Groaning came from the floor. Tandou blinked, a death rattle in his chest. “Your daughter … never part of the plan. Believe me …”
A traitor, too? In league with Jules, scheming behind his back?
He knelt down at Tandou’s side. “Why, Tandou? Why betray me? He’s got my baby.”
Blood trickled from Tandou’s lips. “Never meant …”
Zacharié cradled his old friend in his arms. “Where’s Marie-Jo? Where’s he keeping her?”
Tandou’s labored breathing tore his heart.
“Tell me. I’ve got to …”
“Get him.” Tandou’s chest heaved. “Dervier’s bro … broth … in … knows the …”
And his lungs gave out. He’d gone, leaving a wife, three children and another on the way.
Zacharié stuck the Corsican’s cell phone in his front pocket. Goddammit. He’d find his daughter. But he needed help.
What had Tandou been trying to say? Brother? Dervier only had a sister. Think, he had to think. Brother-in-law? Was the sister married? He thought he might have met the man at some holiday meal once; a picture of a chunky man in a turquoise shirt floated through his mind.
The Corsican’s phone kept lighting up with calls from an unknown number.
Jules.
He needed to let Jules stew, let the scenarios play in his head. The Corsican hit man had made two errors—miscalculating their timetable and leaving behind his phone. Now he was trapped in the courtyard until regular business hours. Jules wouldn’t know anything that had gone down, wouldn’t even know Zacharié was alive.
He had to use this advantage. Leverage it to find Marie-Jo.
He’d get that big-eyed pregnant one with the long legs to help him. The minute Zacharié appeared, Jules would send more goons. What better cover than a pregnant woman?
But he was covered in blood. Tandou’s blood. A sob caught in his throat.
No time to mourn this senseless carnage, cry over their betrayal. He needed to save his daughter. His hand shook as he rooted through the Corsican’s bag. He made himself take off his bloody shirt and put on the windbreaker the Corsican had brought for that very purpose.
Along the way he threw his bloodied shirt and overalls in a dumpster behind Monoprix. Sweating, nerves frayed, he battled through the laughing crowds and street musicians clogging the humid streets of Pigalle. It took forever to reach the guitar store on rue Victor Massé.
Rigaud, the long-haired guitarist who let him sleep in his gar?onnière, bachelor pad, above the shop, gestured to the télé screen behind the cash register. “Sick, I tell you, sick. Can you believe this happened just a few streets away? During Fête de la Musique?”
Zacharié tensed. Had the Corsican escaped, the flics discovered his friends’ bodies …?