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Page 18.

The doomed man's fleshy lips were open, exposing large, yellowish-brown teeth and a curl of raw meat—his tongue—before the tall African shot him with a silenced automatic pistol.

Rick slipped and lay totally flat, just maybe twisted a little to that side. He saw two muzzle flashes and heard popping noises.

One pop, accompanied by a flash.

The victim fell back. His arm dropped, no longer pleading.

A second pop, another flash.

Finished. Or not quite.

The Asian simply bent forward slightly to look, without any wasted energy.

The woman was more thorough. She folded her knees slightly to lean closer. She put a third round into the man's head. The body jerked briefly, lifelessly, with the impact.

The woman and the African pocketed their guns. The three killers did not look happy or fulfilled. If anything, they looked more frustrated. They had not gotten what they'd come after.

The former man was now meat lying in the rain.

Rick woozily swayed where he lay, hoping they could not hear him breathing from twenty or thirty meters away. Why had the dead man switched glasses with Rick inside the bar?

The two shooters turned to walk away on that other street. The little Asian walked between them.

At that moment, Rick felt a hand over his mouth, silencing him. A woman's voice whispered in one ear, "If you want to live, shut up." Rick's eyes widened. His gaze roamed up and back. He saw that she was young, blonde with a chignon, attractive, wearing some sort of airport worker's jacket over silk pants and ballet-like shoes. She put the finger of her free hand over his lips. "Shh!"

Rick had emptied his stomach, which felt as if it had been scoured with acid. His guts burned.

"You need me more than I need you right now," the young woman whispered.

Rick shook his head to clear it. His eyes felt like prisms. His vision was swimming.

He felt a convulsion, and hurled again.

"Shut up!" the girl said, shaking him.

He noisily vomited.

At the other end of the alley, the killers turned.

The woman waited, with her hands in her pockets, one hand on her gun. The man walked cautiously a few steps back into the alley. He listened attentively, having heard a sound.

Rick and the girl were in shadows.

Out came the gun. The African advanced carefully, slowly, and deliberately.

"Come on," the girl said. She pulled on Rick' elbow.

Rick had been in combat. This time he was unarmed. How crazy was that? Panicking, he shoved himself erect. He must survive to fight again.

The girl pulled on his arm, and he followed her. He ran, stumbling, but kept up with her.

Pop.

Two shots in quick succession as the African man saw them.

Each shot took flakes of brick from a nearby wall at eye level.

Spatters and slivers of stone nicked Rick's cheeks.

They rounded the corner and emerged on the street under the neon sign: Bar-39.

Had he walked past here an hour ago, none of this would be happening.

They were on a busy street in Bagnolet.

He looked back at the alley, but the killers were gone.

"They'll find us," she said as she towed Rick along by his hand. "It's just a matter of time."

He shook his head, wishing he could lie down and sleep.

Drowsy, he let her tow him through crowds. They probably seemed like a young couple out on a date, and he'd had too much to drink, and she was guiding him home.

Home. Where the hell was home?

After what seemed like a nightmare of moving, vomiting, staggering, bouncing off walls, hearing strangers laugh or make cruel and cutting remarks in French and in Vietnamese and even U.S. English, Rick felt himself being shown into a safe place. He heard the rattle of a key, the creak of a door, the click of a light switch.

"We're safe here for the time being," said the young woman.

It was the last thing Rick heard before death-like sleep took him into its deep well of darkness.

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