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Page 73.
 A long driveway ran between the CR118 and the backyard of this farm below, right below the farm house windows and through piled rose bushes and bougainvillea, a sea of colors leading to the muddy abandon, standing puddles, and high weeds of the farm yard. Along the edges of the farm yard were rusting vehicles and harvesting equipment. The place looked dark and abandoned—generations ago. The wooden shutters had fallen down, the glass windows were broken, and bushes grew directly out of the house's interior.
Along the road a few hundred meters below were some walls. There was a row of farm structures, maybe old white-washed stone barns beginning to decay so that the gray stone below peered through.
His path led downhill, winding into the old farm yard.
Behind the farm houses that fronted on the road—closer to Rick—was a red and silver helicopter. Its rotors were turning. As Rick came into line of sight, his ears picked up the powerful sound of rotors idling but ready to kick into power mode any second. The chopper was ready to lift off.
Running toward it were two figures—Hannah, and the Chinese man they had seen in the Luxembourg railroad station.
The engine noise picked up intensely.
The chopper began to lighten on the ground.
Dust whirled all around the two running figures in the back farm yard.
"Hannah!" Rick shouted. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hannah!"
She could not hear him.
At that moment, Romain's Audi came down the CR118, turned right in a welter of rocks and dust, and raced into the farm yard.
Romain produced a gun and began firing at the Audi.
A copilot leaned out, aimed a flare gun, and shot directly at the Audi.
The Audi turned—Romain must be hit, Rick thought—and struck a tree with a loud jangle of broken glass and a screeching sound of bent, tearing metal.
A second later, the flare hit. The Audi went up in a bright welter of flames.
Against the exploding flames, the Chinese man and Hannah ran to the chopper.
The co-pilot pulled Hannah up into the chopper.
The Chinese man followed.
Rick stopped helplessly, waved both arms in desperation, and yelled for them to stop—to no avail. There went Hannah, and he could not stop her from being kidnapped.
The rotor noise reached deafening pitch. The farm yard filled with whirling dust. The chopper lifted off.
Rick had one last glimpse of its dimly visible occupants. It was not a military or police aircraft. Rick caught sight of its markings, which meant nothing to him. There was a logo, LX-AREF and ELNT, followed by some numbers and then the image of a bird. Since birds had been emblems of aviation, that meant nothing to Rick—except for a nagging idea at the back of his mind. What was it?
The chopper heeled, leaned, and roared away toward the red ball of the sun that lay bleeding and dying on the forested horizon.
He ran down as fast as he could to the burning car.
Romain had managed to open the door and fall outside.
Rick reached him just in time to pull the man's broken, burning body away—seconds before the car exploded with a loud bang followed by a hot draft of air that smelled of gasoline, oil, and upholstery.
Rick kneeled over Romain, scared at the sight—hair burned away, scalp an angry, welted pink, face mauled and blistered. Romain's clothing smoldered as he lay limp before Rick.
Rick felt for a pulse in the neck—and detected maybe something there.
As he struggled, he heard voices and looked up.
Figures he'd seen trudging on the road resolved into a running group of frantic young men and women in scouting uniforms, colored clay-gray, with campaign hats and walking sticks. Ten of them probably—too much of a blur to count—they came flying to do what they were trained to do.
Several threw themselves around Romain's body, checking his pulse, tearing his jacket open, starting CPR. They were probably late teens, Rick estimated, as he stood by in shock and let them take over.
Two older leaders conferred while speaking on cellphones. The younger ones acted in a professional manner that would have made any infantry unit proud. These were not just kids roasting wieners and singing songs in the woods.
"Bonjour," said a twenty-something brunette with a tennis player's figure, tanned strong face, and blue eyes, who she hurried to take Rick's arm.
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Thank you for reading the first half (free, what I call the Bookstore Metaphor). If you love it, you can (easily and safely at Amazon) buy the whole e-book for the painless price of a cup of coffee—also known as Read-a-Latte (hours of reading enjoyment; the coffee is gone in minutes, but the book stays with you forever). You can also get those many hours of happy reading from the print edition for the price of a sandwich (no, I don't have a metaphor for that, like a 'sandwich metaphor?'). To help the author, please recommend this book your friends, and also post a favorable (five star!) review at Amazon, Good Reads, and similar online reader resources. Thank you (JTC).
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